


The File Manager

by rasyya



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Dirty Talk, Eventual Smut, Heavy Angst, M/M, Phone Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Work In Progress, alternate universe architect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rasyya/pseuds/rasyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a secretary.<br/>Arthur is his boss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this piece is probably going to be unnecessarily long and may be the cause of my death.
> 
> constructive criticism is appreciated.  
> thank you for reading.

**I.**

Eames wakes up feeling out of sorts. Feeling out of sorts isn’t all that unusual for him, but this out of sorts feels _more_ out of sorts than usual.

Scowling groggily at the fan whirling above him, he desperately tries to remember why, at such an ungodly hour, his alarm clock is blaring at him so hatefully.  
  
Ah. Right. It’s his first day of work. At his new job.  
  
His first day of work at his new, completely above board, one hundred percent legal, legitimate job.  
  
As a File Manager. Not a Secretary, a _File Manager_. When Eames thinks ‘Secretary’ he imagines himself crawling across a carpeted office in a pencil skirt—not something he’s opposed to, mind you, but— he thinks the distinction is the first step in maintaining his sanity. File Manager. Capital ‘F’, ‘M’.

_Fuck Me. Too early to start drinking?_

Eames stretches and rolls over, sheets twisting around broad thighs, and wonders--not for the first time this past weekend-- how he'd managed to get himself so royally fucked. The answer to which, more often than not, was that he hadn't a fucking clue.  
  
Or gambling; often the answer was gambling.  
  
And in this case, it is unquestionably gambling that has him fucked.

  
**.**

  
It'd happened on a Thursday. Eames could never quite get the hang of Thursdays, and so he’d done what he generally did on particularly awful Thursdays; he’d gotten pissed.  
  
That was his first mistake.  
  
His second mistake was going to the Cobb’s.  
  
His third was engaging in a particularly blood-thirsty game of five card poker.  
  
With a crazy man, and his pregnant wife.  
  
Eames groans, and shuffles to the bathroom unsteadily.  
  
Eames is good at cards. He's fucking aces at cards, but Mal is…Mal. The best. Which is why, generally, Eames has a rule of not going up against her. Ever. Upon pain of death.  
  
But-- _alcohol_.  
  
Eames allows himself an audible sigh.  
  
Jesus, he can still see her face.  
  
All glinting eyes and wine lips and bared teeth as she'd showed her cards and sat back smiling carnivorously at him.  
  
“Oh my God,” Ariadne had breathed somberly, “Shit Eames, I’m so sorry.”  
  
And Eames' mouth wouldn’t close. He just sat, looking at Mal’s royal flush, gaping like a bloody fish.  
  
It was at that point that Dom had started to laugh.  
  
Eames had looked up at Mal balefully, he could’ve sworn he’d seen a bit of pity in her expression before it hardened, determined,

  
“For Cairo, Eames,” making him flinch, “Welcome to hell.”

**.**

  
Eames strips out of his sleep shorts, and steps inside the shower, steam curling around his calves as the water pounds against his back.  
  
He had argued, had tried--unsuccessfully— to reason with the mad woman.  
  
“One fucking bullet!” he had shouted, “Jesus Mal, it was one measly bullet, nothing to cry over! Nothing to do this over. Mal, please love, be reasonable!”  
  
Dom hadn't stopped laughing.  
  
Ariadne, a conflict-avoiding opportunist, escaped to the kitchen to grab another bottle of wine. Or three.  
  
“I’ve heard you complain about him for seven ruddy months, and you’re going to do this to me? On top of office work? You know I can’t stand to be cooped up, Mal—”  
  
She cut him off by leaning over the poker table, perfectly polished finger jabbing him in the shoulder.  
  
“Eames. I won,” her voice quiet, harsh, “If you weren't planning on honouring the pot, then you should have folded when you had the chance.”  
  
Eames felt the coldness of inevitability sobering-sharp in his chest; he may be a liar and a forger, but he honours his debts.   
  
“The pot was for keeps, darling,” She'd said pity-quiet, “Until I have the baby, and then you are released.”   
  
“Plus,” she added softly, “I hate to do this to you, dear, but you _owe_ me.”  
  
Eames swallowed noisily around the lump in his throat, guilt and shame throttling him quiet.  
  
Cobb stopped laughing, “Mal, dearest, are you seriously going to—”  
  
Mal turned on him in a swirl of righteous indignation,  
  
“I will not go through this pregnancy with that bastard driving me insane and not be able to have a drink. Drinking’s all I’ve got at this point, and if I have to deal with him and not have alcohol to save me, Dom—” she lapsed into forceful, angry French, and Eames slunk away to find Ariadne. And a stiff drink.  
  
He found both in the kitchen, Ariadne looked at him over the bottle she was unceremoniously guzzling.  
  
“Can you fucking believe this?” Eames sighed, reaching for the bottle.  
  
She finished her swig with a pop and looked at him soberly. Well, not entirely soberly.  
  
“I’ll eat lunch with you; I’m only three floors down,” his dark haired protégé slurred at him, the bottle back to her lips.  
  
She was reaching the bottom of it, “It won’t be so bad. He’s not so bad.”  
  
Eames raised an eyebrow at her. She coughed, and amended,  
  
“I mean, Mal’s stuck it out the longest of anyone, and you’re just as stubborn as she is.” Ariadne paused, “Then again she’s never quit anything in her life. Plus I sort of think she’s growing fond of him, French masochist that she is, so maybe you are a bit screwed. But it’s just a bet Eames, hand in your notice after a few days, I’m sure it’ll be fi—“  
  
“I never quit.” He interrupted proudly, grabbing the almost empty bottle from her and placing it on the counter.  
  
“Bullshit!” she cried, “There was Versailles for starters, and also Mumbai, Naples, Pokhara, Manila, don’t tell me you forgot about fucking Moscow, Eames, oh and—”  
  
“All right, all right, you tart, I get it. So I quit. A lot. But I always pay what I owe when I lose, even though that’s a rare enough occasion.” He trailed off bitterly, turning to the freezer to look for the vodka he knew he’d find there. It was behind the frozen peas.  
  
Ariadne shuffled her socked feet against the linoleum, “A full house is a perfectly respectable hand.” She whispered to his back.  
  
He loved her for it.  
  
“This was never about cards, Ari.”  
  
Eames had found her on the streets in Chiang Mai, back when it was just him and Dom, with Mal as their fence, and he’d taught a scrawny doe-eyed girl to forge and to con and to not get caught.  
  
The kid had been good. Still was good. She was working over marks to pay her way through architecture school.  
  
Mal had gotten Ariadne the internship at Finch  & Son, the biggest architecture firm in Chicago.  
  
Where Eames would be replacing Mal while she was on maternity leave.  
  
For eight months.  
  
The personal assistant to, as Mal put it, “the devil himself,” Arthur Finch.

  
**.**

  
Eames focuses on smoothing soap across his skin, the silky suds relieving a little tension, blurring whorls of ink. He tries to quiet his mind; lifting his face to the spray of the shower. He deserves this, that was the bitter truth of the whole damn situation—it was his fault that Mal had gotten caught. Turning off the shower, he swallows thickly; shame burning hotly in his throat. It was all his fucking fault.  
  
His fault she’d gotten caught, his mistake that had cracked their whole operation wide and wound-exposed; the reason they'd all had to go underground, go legitimate. The reason that Mal had to work a job she hated for an arsehole that made her life miserable. _His fault_ he felt hollowed out and husk-empty. _His fault_ that he couldn't--Eames grits his teeth and grabs a terry cloth towel.  
  
_Enough._    
  
It was Eames’ fault. And here he was a year and a losing hand later, paying for it.  
  
Karma, it turns out, really is a vindictive bitch; a pregnant French one.

  
**.**

  
Eames stands awkwardly in the lobby of Finch  & Son waiting for the lift. He wonders if he can put his hands in his pockets, or if that would ‘ruin the lines of suit’ as Ariadne had exasperatedly harped at him, and catches his reflection in the stainless steel of the lift doors.   
  
He looks nervous, so slips on a cheeky grin, and straightens his shoulders.  
  
He keeps his hands out of his pockets, trying to mind his lines, because he’s wearing a tailored navy suit, his best suit, because _apparently_ he couldn’t wear “fucking polyester to Finch  & Son, Jesus, Eames!” or so Ariadne had shouted at him over the phone when he’d sent her a photo message earlier that morning asking if he should wear the paisley tie, or the striped one.  
  
“Why the hell not? It looks nice,” Eames had looked down at himself, and added defensively, “it was my Granddad’s.”  
“ _Because_ Eames,” Ariadne had explained slowly, fake patience oozing out of the earpiece and drenching Eames with disdain, “It was your _Granddad’s_. When you wear that suit you look like a Danish man from the 1970s; an ugly one.”  
  
Eames had snorted, “As if I could ever be considered ugly.”  
  
She'd ignored him, “Arthur Finch is the most fashionable man I’ve ever seen. The best brands, impeccable tailoring, he always looks divine, oh my god you should see his ass in this one gray suit, he—”  
  
“Araidne.”  
  
“Sorry. But Eames, he will notice. And not in the way you want him to. He definitely won’t appreciate your ‘quaint, eccentric’ clothing choices. And you don’t want to make a bad impression.”  
  
“Jesus Ariadne, I’m just his File Manager,”  
  
“His…what?! File Manager, Eames? Really?” he could hear her sputtering down the line, laughing. He narrowed his eyes.  
  
“Twat,” he muttered.  
  
“Whatever you want to call yourself, Eames, you’re his _Secretary_ ,” he could hear her smug grin, “And you’re the first person people see when they come to his office. Look your best, wear the navy sans tie, and meet me downstairs in ten. We’ll go shopping after your first day in the seventh layer.”  
  
Eames had considered not changing, but only for a few minutes.  
  
Then he’d dashed about his flat like a madman, dodging piles of books, art supplies, nearly tripping over an unfinished forge of a Klimpt, throwing on his navy suit, trying to find the left foot of his dress shoes, and grabbing a swallow of lukewarm tea. He pushed out the front door of his apartment building into the warm air of early Chicago in September, in a little under ten minutes.  
  
Ariadne was waiting for him. She held out a raspberry danish, smirking.  
  
The joke was not lost on him.  
  
They fell in step and made their way to the bus stop.  
  
Ariadne arched an eyebrow at Eames as the bus pulled up to their stop. The doors opened with hiss. She studied him quietly for a moment, and eventually asked,  
  
“You aren’t nervous are you?”  
  
Eames’ head snapped towards her, his eyebrows pulled together, and his bottom lip trapped between uneven teeth.  
  
Truth is, he was nervous. Frightfully so. Eames is an unrestrained fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of bloke; a thief, a man who makes his living by trickery and impulsivity.  
  
He wasn’t sure he could handle sitting in an office for eight months.   
  
“You forget, love,” he had said to her quietly, “in our profession there’s no room for nerves.”

  
**.**

  
Fidgeting, Eames buttons the top button on his shirt, decides he looks like a complete tosser, and unbuttons it again.  
  
Ten more floors.  
  
Ari tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear and hums quietly next to him, waiting for the lift to deliver her to her floor; Eames feels more than sees realization smack her right in the forehead.  
  
She stiffens and looks over at him, mouth slightly open, and eyebrows up, in the universal expression for ‘gob smacked’.

  
Eames keeps his eyes forward, silent, waiting.  
  
“Are you treating this like a Job?!” she hisses at him, smile plastered onto her face for the benefit of the nine to five’s crowded in a herd around them.  
  
Eames has the grace to grimace.  
  
Ariadne faces him fully,  
  
“You _are_ treating this like a Job you sad, ridiculous forger. Arthur Finch isn’t a mark, dumb-ass,” she whispers forcefully.  
  
Four more floors.  
  
“He’s smart— genius level, and Eames whatever you’re planning to do, or if this is how you’re planning to cope, it’s going to fail. Spectacularly. Just,” she pauses, eyes fond-soft, “straighten up, and be yourself.”  
  
He shoves his hands in his pockets, lines be damned, looking down at his shoes as the elevator ‘bings’ its arrival.  
  
“Be no one but yourself, Eames. This isn’t a game, and this isn’t a Job— at least, not the kind you’re used to. You can’t work Arthur Finch over, and you shouldn’t. This isn’t a con, it’s the real world. And whether you’ve realized it or not, this is the Cobb’s way of seeing if you’re ready to be a part of it. Be yourself.”  
  
The elevator doors slide open and Eames stays silent until Ariadne is almost out of the lift.  
  
“If I don’t pull someone else on, Ari, I won’t stand a chance.”

  
**.**

  
What Eames doesn't account for is the way that Arthur Finch looks at you that makes it impossible to be anyone but yourself.  
  
Ariadne had been right. Arthur Finch was one of those people you _couldn’t_ con.  
  
He sees through Eames in less than three seconds.  
  
“Cut the bullshit,” he says, barely looking up from his desk, and the eager-to-please look slides right off Eames’ face.  
  
He’d been playing Henry, a shy, awkward, easy-to-trust accountant.  
  
Eames takes a step forward and shakes out of Henry, shoulders straightening from unassuming-hunched to fuck-off broadness, and comes back to himself. He shoves his hands into his pockets, probably fucking the lines of his suit to hell, and studies the polished man sitting in front of him.  
  
The only person he’d ever met who’d seen through him that quickly was Dom; colour him intrigued, to say the least.  
  
By the devil himself.  
  
Eames doesn’t live under a rock; he knows who Arthur Finch is. He’s the ‘ & Son’ in Finch & Son Architecture, and since Finch Senior died a year ago, he is also one of the youngest CEO’s in the game; twenty-five, blood-thirsty, and brilliant.  
  
And beautiful— but not in the way that Eames is handsome. Arthur Finch is modern streamlined beauty; all dark hair and pale skin, tall and lean and polished. The lines of _his_ suit aren’t fucked, and when he stands to shake Eames’ hand, it’s with an elegant poise, graceful but considered, his grasp in Eames’ hand a firm, unyielding hold.  
  
Eames isn’t sure what to do... which for Eames is rare.  
  
The man standing in front of him is everything Eames isn’t. Where Arthur is agile and fluid, Eames is solid and blunt. Where Eames creates problems, Arthur unmakes them.  
  
Eames has an unconventional twistedness about him; in his uneven mismatched teeth, in the way he dresses down his attractiveness. He is unpredictable, impulsive, smart-mouthed, and dishonest; a wild card.  
  
Arthur, on the other hand, is _perfect_. From his carefully slicked back hair to his even, straight teeth. Everything about him reeks of faultlessness; in his impeccable dress and air of immaculate precision. Arthur is calm and organized where Eames is unpredictable disorder. Arthur is calculating where Eames is reckless, and although Eames has a rugged foreign attractiveness, a charismatic magnetism one often finds in chaos, Arthur Finch is unadulterated loveliness, stunning precise artistry.           
  
Arthur is… staring at him oddly.  
  
Looking down Eames sees that he is still shaking Arthur’s hand like a fucking lunatic.  
  
Pulling back the offending appendage, he shoves it back into his pocket. Ariadne may need to refresh him again on the importance of the lines of his goddamn suit.  
  
“Sit, Mr. Eames,” Arthur gestures with a wide hand, sliding back into his own chair.  
  
Eames sits; feet crossed at the ankles, and rakes a hand through his hair.  
  
He could already tell that Arthur Finch was a piece of work, a fucking beautiful piece of work.  
  
And if there was anything Eames was a sucker for, it was a fucking beautiful piece of work.  
  
“So, you’re Mrs. Cobb’s maternity-leave replacement, Mr. Eames? A recommendation she made herself,” Arthur shuffles some papers around on his desk.  
  
“Yes,” Eames replies, “Mal wagered you in a game of five card poker.”  
  
“And you won?”  
  
Eames grins toothily, “I lost.”  
  
Arthur looks up from the papers in his hands and into Eames’ eyes for the first time during their meeting, one eyebrow perfectly raised.  
  
Eames’ swallows hard.  
  
God, but he’s _fucked_. Arthur’s eyes are deep and dark, unbending, hard and calculating.  
  
And Eames _wants_.  
  
It hits him low in the gut, forceful and sudden. Eames wants those eyes to look at him with warmth, indulgence, lust and need.   
  
Instead they regard him with disdain and condescension.  
  
“Is that so,” says Arthur Finch; it isn’t a question.  
  
Eames doesn’t reply, instead he looks down at Arthur’s long tapered fingers tapping on the polished mahogany of his desk. They are pianist’s hands, artist’s fingers, and Eames appreciates and envies, as a pianist and artist.  
  
“Do you not have a first name, Mr. Eames?”  
  
Eames looks up from the fingers jerkily,  
  
“No,” Eames is, after all, a liar.  
  
The other eyebrow arches to meet the first one,  
  
“Hm,” is all the answer Eames gets, as Arthur gingerly picks up Eames’ less-than-genuine CV with its less-than-real previous employments.  
  
“Hm,” Arthur says again, and drops the papers in front of him, leaning forward fingers steepled,  
  
“To be completely honest, Mr. Eames, I don’t care what your first name is, or how ridiculously conceited it is to just list one name on a CV as though you're Seal, or Cher. I don’t care that every contact number you listed leads to the same man with or without an Irish accent. Your work visa checks out, and that’s all that matters.”  
  
Eames ignores the insult in favor of grinning internally. His visa better fucking check out; it’s a piece of art, one of his best counterfeits.  
  
“I go through secretaries,” Arthur continues, ignoring Eames’ wince at the title, “like candy, and I don’t expect you to last the week.”  
  
Eames’ eyes narrow as Arthur persists,  
  
“Given the suspicious nature of your resume, I doubt you have much work experience. If the complexities of your duties, which will mostly include being on your knees singing the alphabet song, are too much for you to handle, not to worry,” the disdain drips off Arthur’s words like syrup, “I can hire ten of you in ten minutes. Don’t imagine for an instant that you are inimitable.”  
  
Eames carries on with the silent treatment. As fine-looking and striking as Arthur Finch is, he’s also a bit of a dick.      
  
“You are to refer to me as Mr. Finch, and you will do everything I ask of you as promptly and as thoroughly as possible. Are you a religious man, Mr. Eames?”  
  
“Very lapsed catholic,” Eames blinks, confused at the change in subject.  
  
“Well in here, I am God. And what I say is law, understood?”  
  
“Yes.” The forger grits out from between clenched teeth. Eames doesn’t take orders from anyone except Dom, and even then those are carefully worded as suggestions-he-better-fucking-do.  
  
“Yes, what? Mr. Eames,” Arthur prods slowly, as though speaking to a particularly thick Neanderthal.  
  
“Yes I understand that in here I’m your bitch,” Eames retorts, insulted and irritated.   
  
 “Exactly,” Arthur smiles, which to Eames’ horror makes him even more arresting.  
  
“Now run along. You’ll find you passed your desk on the way in, and I’ve sent a list of everything I need done this morning to your email. The IT department has set you up with an account and the information is taped to your computer. You start every day at 8:00am, you have an hour lunch break at 12:30, and your day ends at six o’clock if you’ve finished everything. See yourself out Mr. Eames.”  
  
Arthur Finch turns to a sleek looking computer, and starts tapping away at it.  
  
In any other situation, Eames would have politely told Finch to go fuck himself, no matter how much of an Adonis the man was.  
  
But Eames honours his debts. So instead he stands and makes his way to the door, stopping as he yanks it open to look back at Arthur, “Call me Eames. Like Seal or Cher. There’s no mister,” relishing the affronted look on Arthur Finch’s face, as he strides out.

  
**.**

  
Eames sits at his desk and looks at a yellow post-it note stuck to the monitor of his desktop computer.  
  
The handwriting is undoubtedly Arthur’s; a pointed, refined cursive. Even his hand-writing looks like it needs a good fucking.  
  
Eames’ work email is eames@fincharchitecture.com. His password is secretary.  
  
Swearing, Eames signs into Outlook taking deep, even breaths.  
  
There is an email from Arthur.  
  
Reading it Eames swears again.  
  
And then again for good measure.  
   
  
TO:   eames@fincharchitecture.com  
  
FROM:   arthur@fincharchitecture.com  
  
SUBJECT: (no subject)  
  
I have a meeting at 9:30am with the board.  
  
For this meeting I will need all the files on the Stenton commission, the Wright commission, and the blueprints for the Savoy copied in triplicate. I also need the updated designs on the Savoy foyer sent up from Yusuf, and you will need to hi-light in green all the size changes made from the old design.  
  
Aside from this finish everything in your IN tray. Pick up my dry-cleaning from drop it off at my building. Assuming you don’t have reliable transportation, you will be reimbursed for your bus fare.  
  
Do not disturb me unless it is an emergency. And to hand me the papers I need at 9:15. No later.  
  
I will email with any tasks from here on out.  
  
A.Finch    
  
  
Before Eames has a chance to swear again, his computer pings.  
  
   
TO:   eames@fincharchitecture.com  
  
FROM:   arthur@fincharchitecture.com  
  
SUBJECT: Coffee  
  
Venti triple shot macchiato with vanilla soy, stat. I don’t care if you have to kill someone to get it.  I want it in ten minutes or less.  
  
Eames swears.  
  
And shoots back:  
  
  
TO:   arthur@fincharchitecture.com  
  
FROM:   eames@fincharchitecture.com  
  
RE: Coffee                             
  
I know how to use the bloody intercom, by the way. How do you feel about whipped cream?  
  
  
Eames adds, just to be cheeky.  
  
The intercom on his left crackles,  
  
“None,” is the terse reply.  
  
Eames glances at his watch. It’s 8:17. He has about an hour to do god knows what with some copying and some filing, a green highlighter, and whatever the hell a Yusuf is.  
  
And 10 minutes to get coffee.  
  
He gets the coffee in seven by contacting a barista who owes him a favour for forging a green card.  
  
“Elsa, love, you know that thing you owe me?” he can hear her freeze on the other line, “provide me with a venti triple shot macchiato, vanilla soy hold the cream anytime I need it, the first one in five minutes, and we can call it even.”  
  
She curses at him, in English and Romanian, using some combinations Eames smirks at with the phone held a foot away from his ear and files away for later use, but she agrees to call Edward, the barista at the Starbucks across the street from Finch  & Son, and see what she can do.  
  
What Elsa can do, apparently, are miracles.  
  
Eames raps on Arthur’s door, steaming drink in hand.  
  
“Enter only if you’ve got my Macchiato. If not, consider yourself fired.”  
  
Eames considers leaving, but only for a few seconds, and opens the door.  
  
Arthur is sitting at his desk, jacket off, shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sketching in a black moleskin. He looks at his watch, and raises an eyebrow.  
  
The CEO doesn’t look at Eames, just gestures towards an open spot on the expansive mahogany for Eames to set down the coffee, and waves towards the door as if shooing away a pesky fly.  
  
God help him, Eames wants Finch to look up and acknowledge his presence. He feels like a sodding dog, salivating and waiting for a pat on the head and a “job well done.”  
  
He gets nothing.  
  
Sitting down at his desk, Eames lets his forehead get thoroughly familiar with the smooth wood for a minute, and takes a few deep breaths.  
  
Then he pulls up Ariadne’s information from the business directory and sends her an email.  
  
   
  
TO:   a.dess@fincharchitecture.com  
  
FROM:   eames@fincharchitecture.com  
  
SUBJECT: fuck  
  
What the bloody fucking hell is a Yusuf?

  
**.**

  
It takes Eames until an hour and a quarter to figure out how to irritate Arthur.  
  
To exceed expectation—which, to Eames’ disgust, is admittedly low —and to complete everything perfectly with a reckless abandon. Eames performs his tasks with an Eames-like attitude and impulsive chaos that is unorthodox, sometimes illegal, and involves a lot of cursing at an outlandishly ancient copy machine, that yields results Finch can’t argue with; and that, in itself, _gets_ to Arthur.  
  
Eames can tell in the slight flaring of Finch’s nostrils as he hands the CEO several blue file folders at 9:14am exactly.  
  
The forger grins tooth-full and slightly vengeful, and discovers that it isn’t just getting shit done that upgrades the nostril flare to the scowl; it’s getting shit done cheerfully.  
  
Eames is good at being cheerful, and Arthur’s resigned glare after seeing that everything is there, and in order, makes it even easier. His smile stretches.  
  
Eames mentally pats himself on the back, heads to his desk, and promptly unorganizes the clutter into something he can manage; a disorderly file system that only he would understand. Kicking off his shoes, he starts trudging his way through the tray marked IN.  
  
It takes Eames four and a half hours to figure out how to unsettle Arthur. Four and a half hours to figure out how to ruffle Arthur Finch’s perfectly in place feathers, to put him out of sorts, and Eames relishes this discovery:  
  
One word,  
  
It was a bit cruel, he admitted to himself later, but he doesn’t really have a problem with that.  
  
Obviously such a young CEO is going to have a problem feeling patronized.

  
Finch probably feels demeaned at board meetings, faces condescension at every turn, is constantly told what to do, written off, not taken seriously, and most likely goes to great lengths to be treated as an equal; as a colleague.  
  
Which is probably why he is such a stuck-up, self-righteous arsehole.    
  
It was a bit cruel, Eames thought later, grinning wolfishly, not feeling a gram of guilt.  
  
Eames has a good seven years on Arthur, and it shows. Finch looks barely twenty-five in such a deliciously endearing way, that Eames can’t help it when the mocking endearment rolls off his tongue as he pops his head into Arthur’s office at 12:30 and says, “I’m going to lunch now, darling, be back in hour.” Arthur Finch cringes, but says nothing, cold eyes turning steely, and Eames knows, can feel it as he strolls towards the lift, that the younger man has waged war.  
  
Eames laughs loudly, the lift doors closing behind him, and hums all the way down.

  
**.**

  
“You look pleased as punch,” Ariadne greets him at the downstairs café.  
  
Eames ignores this, too pleased to care as he grabs an avocado sandwich with goat cheese, peppers, and tomato.  
  
“I take it the job is going well?” Ariadne prods as they sit down at a table near a window, sunlight streaming in lighting up dust motes.  
  
“As well as could be expected,” Eames supplies, taking a big bite out of his sandwich.  
  
Ariadne looks at him over a bowl of chicken tortilla soup, doe eyes going big and soft and making Eames feel gooey and guilty,  
  
“Alright, don’t give me The Eyes. This job is the fucking worst I’ve ever pulled,” Ariadne’s eyebrows shoot up at his phrasing, “and that counts Istanbul.”  
  
Ariadne’s look is nonplussed,  
  
“And?”  
  
“And it’s a lot of fun,” Eames says sarcastically.  
  
She waits. Ariadne has patience in spades.  
  
“Okay, okay. I met with the devil this morning and he was an absolute dick,” Eames spears an artichoke heart, “and I’ve just had the pleasure of rubbing my competency in his face, thanks for the help by the way, and the prick didn’t have the manners to say ‘Thank you Eames, wow, my God! Can’t believe you got all that done without ever having worked in an office, Eames, Cheers!’”  
  
“So this is why you’re pleased?” Ariadne asks confusedly, licking her spoon.  
  
“No, no. I’m pleased because I’ve irritated him.” Eames smiles around a bite of apple.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m pleased because he didn’t expect me to be able to do anything, and I’ve done it. And on top of that, I’ve discovered how to get under his skin. And you know me—I do love a challenge.”  
  
Ariadne stares,  
  
“Oh my God, you like him.”  
  
Eames glares at her disgustedly,  
  
“I don’t like him, sorry— are we suddenly in a Jane Austen novel? I just didn’t expect that I might be able to have a bit of a laugh poking fun at the prick. Get under his skin. That’s the way to fight the devil, isn’t it, love?”  
  
Ariadne nods, conceding slowly and grinning widely.  
  
Eames preens, and Ari smacks him on the arm.  
  
He finishes his lunch, listening with half an ear as Ariadne waxes poetic about who _exactly_ Yusuf is. 

  
**.**

  
He should have known better.  
  
Eames finishes working through his IN tray with a lot of expletives, furtive emails to Ariadne, phone calls to redeem favours, and some more expletives. He does the whole dry-cleaning bit, and feels like that girl out of The Devil Wears Prada.  
  
After that realization he nearly calls it quits, but instead stops at a hotdog vendor for a little comfort food.  
  
Back in the office it is surprisingly quiet. No calls from the intercom, no emails from Finch. Eames has been waiting for the other shoe to drop all day, but— he guesses— it isn’t going to.  
  
He should have known better.  
  
Eames looks at the time, 5:58.  
  
Shoulders loosening at the promise of freedom he stands from his desk, grabs the jacket he’d shucked, and turns to find Arthur Finch leaning in his office doorway, arms crossed casually, shirt-sleeves pushed up over smooth, taut forearms.  
  
Eames thinks for a moment he sees Finch’s eyes flicker from his arse up to his face as he turns, and what might be, curse the bad lighting in this place, a hint of a blush.  
  
“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur poses coolly.  
  
Eames’ stomach plummets.  
  
“It’s six o’clock, Mr. Finch,” he drawls, balefully facing Arthur fully.  
  
The man looks positively sinful standing in the doorway like that.  Finch does the whole clothes thing very, _very_ well. Charcoal fitted trousers that mold around legs a mile long. A bottle green shirt tucked in at the belt that stretches across his chest in a way that should be outlawed in at least forty-seven states.  Dark hair that had been combed back severely that morning is now slightly disheveled, and it makes Arthur look just a little bit undone. The sight goes straight to Eames’ cock.  
  
He’d been ignoring it all day, tamping down the desire when it surfaced, but now he opens the floodgates and sags in acceptance and defeat, letting it hit him like a goddamn truck.  
  
The conman’s eyes rake over Arthur, greedily taking him in; noticing, despite the bad lighting, the younger man’s face flush at the obvious perusal, arms tightening over his chest.  
  
Eames places his jacket down on his desk beside a stack of papers, and stalks slowly over to his boss, taking in the quickening rise and fall of the other man’s chest, the way he stiffens defensively as Eames gets closer, and closer.  
  
He stops about a foot away; hands shoved into his pockets, (fuck the goddamn lines, Ariadne) a predatory smirk gracing his face. Licking his lips he watches Finch’s mouth part in response.  
  
Arthur’s eyes snap up to his, and they’re cold, hard, unyielding and vindictive—but there’s something in them, a flicker of something that is there and gone so fast Eames thinks he might have imagined it.  
  
Eames grabs onto it like the adrenaline junkie he is, leans into Arthur’s personal space and breathes him in. Mint and cloves, and something so intrinsically Arthur it makes Eames dizzy; a smell like smooth glass and hard marble.  
  
“Is there something you need from me… off the clock?” low words soaked with seduction.  
  
Arthur’s face reddens deeply as he flinches and turns swiftly, going back into his office.  
  
“Check your inbox Mister Eames,” he throws over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.  
  
The time stamp on the e-mail in his inbox is 5:57pm. He texts Ari and tells her they’re going to have to postpone their suit shopping trip.  
  
Eames doesn’t get home until ten that night.   
  
When he finally falls into bed after a long hot shower, a late supper, and a film to fill his head with static, it’s with nothing but loathing and resentment towards his arse of an employer. Freedom is something Eames cherishes, and Arthur Finch has taken it away.  
  
Fuck the fact that Arthur Finch is gorgeous and, personality aside, exactly Eames’ type.  
  
Fuck the fact that Eames hasn’t wanted something this badly in years.  
  
He will never, ever give in to his desire and do anything about it.  
  
He will abhor and loathe and irritate Arthur Finch for the entire eight months of his employment.  
  
Eight months.  
  
_Fuck_ ; Eames needs to go to the liquor store.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoy the chapter,  
> thank you all for your lovely lovely comments,  
> thank you for reading !

**II.**

Eames waits for the fireworks.

Aside from the usual nearly-but-not-quite-impossible tasks Finch gives Eames, and the accompanying unbearably-uptight and petty-vindictive atmosphere, nothing out of the ordinary happens.

By Friday Eames is beginning to think he imagined the hard vengeful malice he saw in Arthur’s eyes that first day, and then everything explodes. It’s a mother fucking _show._

It starts with the intercom buzzing.

“Yusuf is on his way up, let him in straight away.”

Eames says nothing, and goes back to reading the Architectonic Wikipedia page.

Five minutes later a man with unruly curls and a close-cut goatee strolls out of the elevator and up to Eames’ desk.

“Ah, the fabled Eames!” He exclaims in a slightly accented voice ringing with warmth.

“I could say the same,” Eames mutters under his breath, gesturing behind himself to indicate the high and mighty _Mr._ Finch would see him now.

Five minutes later, while on the phone with a contact of a contact, trying to book Arthur a seat at _the most exclusive restaurant_ in town for a dinner _in three hours,_ the elevator dings, and Eames' stomach twists and plunges, his throat going weird and tight at the sight of Ariadne strolling out, hands jammed in her pockets, comical aloofness and self-importance shading her stride as she does a rather good impression of Arthur.

She breaks at the expression on his face, looks past him and Eames knows she's looking at Yusuf, her poker face sliding in just in time to hide a look of deep admiration, he clutches the phone receiver as she smiles at him and waves a bit, waiting for Eames to wrap things up on the phone.

“I don’t fucking care, Martin. Remember that beautiful grandbaby of yours? Hm? And her American birth certificate? The best seat in the house, six-thirty sharp, and for godssakes don’t make him wait.” He exhales quickly looking up at Ari, dread pooling in his gut.

“What are you here for, love?” he asks quickly,

“Not sure. Probably the Sloan project I've been working on with Yusuf. Drinks tonight?” Eames doesn’t have time to warn her, isn’t even sure why he feels like he has to warn her, before she's turning the knob behind him to Finch’s office.

Seventeen minutes later Eames hears the door open and close behind him quietly, Yusuf doesn't look back at him.

Eames’ fingers play nervously with his lucky poker chip.

Three minutes after that Ariadne rushes by quickly, eyes glancing off his, poker face firmly, rigidly, perfectly in place—and it's the slight hunching of her shoulders, the mess of her hair, and the fact that she didn’t quite meet his eyes, that has Eames seeing red.

He pushes up from his desk, scattering papers everywhere, and forgoes knocking to fling open the door to Arthur’s office with a bang.

Arthur is smiling; a smile that ends at his mouth, and a look on his face that can only be described as wolfish, righteous, gleeful retribution, and Eames can’t _stand it_.

“Did you make her cry?” Eames asks tight and low, he can barely hear his own voice the rushing in his ears is so loud.

Arthur’s smile dials up a notch.

If Eames had a gun, he would blow the smug look right off Arthur Finch’s face.

Instead he sets about wiping it off with something less likely to land him back in jail.

Eames is a big man. It's subtle, and he's pretty good at disguising it in unobtrusiveness, but - all things told, Eames is a big man. He can feel the sick blackness that gets him rage-drunk and keeps him fury-calm ooze into his skull, and he can feel his broadness, his bigness making itself fucking obtrusive, and he knows it doesn't matter if Arthur is his boss, doesn’t matter if-- it doesn't fucking matter. Eames is a big man, and has been in situations far worse than this, and nobody-- fucking _nobody,_ makes Ariadne cry.

“What did you do?” Eames asks, taking a step forward, rolling his shoulders.

Arthur’s smile dims slightly, but stays on his stupid, perfect face.

“A little humiliation Mister Eames, goes a long way. Are you acquainted with Ms. Dess?” Arthur looks ridiculously good today; the melt-in-your-mouth good that a navy pinstripe suit can give a man with Arthur’s casual confidence.

“You know I am,” Eames says.

“Ah well, mustn't get too close to your colleagues Mister Eames, they might get caught in the cross hairs of the battlefield that is your, ahem, grueling secretarial work.”

Eames closes the gap between them fast, grabbing a handful of cool gray shirt and a bit of pinstripe lapel, and pulls Arthur Finch forward over the expansive desk between them.

He grins as that wretched smile slides right off Finch’s face.    

“I don’t give a fuck,” Eames starts quietly, “that you have a problem with me. And I also don’t give a fuck that you feel the need to throw yourself around like a big boy because you have a big boy office, and a big boy job.” Arthur’s eyes meeting his are remote and steely. Eames can see little flecks of green in the deep brown, and he sees anger, scorn; a sliver of fear.

Eames tries to keep his voice controlled and level, can hear himself unable to keep out the snarl, “This—” he says, pointing a hard finger at Arthur, swallows, and then himself, “is between you and me. If you bring Ariadne into it again, you will be on the receiving end of some skills I left out of my application form. You get me, _darling_?”

Arthur’s cheeks are smudges of faint pink, he stiffens slightly, and meets Eames’ gaze.

The forger tightens his grip,

“Do you understand, Mr. Finch?”

“I—” Arthur's eyes are flickering between his and then quick as lightening down at Eames’ lips, and for a fraction of a second he leans almost imperceptibly forward, breath coming out of his mouth in a muffled huff.

 Eames doesn’t notice.

“If you speak to her about anything other than work, I will shatter your fucking knee caps. If you speak to her about work with anything other than constructive criticism and well deserved praise, I will hunt you down like the dog you are and I will gut you. I can be,” Eames grins wide, crooked teeth on display, “very discreet.”

Eames breaks off, noticing Arthur’s breathing speeding up, and the colour rising in his cheeks, eyes still glued to Eames’ mouth, 

“Are you even listening to me?” he growls, crushing crisp cloth between large fists, and pulling Arthur forward even more. Arthur’s breath hitches, and his eyes flicker up to Eames’. Teeth snapping, Eames continues,

“If you try to sack me over this little,” he pauses, searching for the right word, “conversation, you’ll find out in painful, explicit detail why my resume is on the sparser side.”

Eames finally looks at Arthur; at the way he's exhaling in short sharp pants, the fabric stretching over his chest a mesmerizing tattoo rhythm of rising and falling, his face flushed a delicious red, hooded eyes that are turning molten; matching the cool anger in Eames' with-- _something._

Eames stops, and can’t look away; he loosens his grip slightly.

Arthur pants, and stares, and seems to be simultaneously pulling away from him, and straining towards him.

Transfixed, Eames loses his momentum and drops his hands, releasing Arthur. Finch braces himself on his desk, gaze dark, unholy, the metal in them turning dark and hot, and Eames can’t look away.

Suddenly, Arthur closes his eyes.

“Mister Eames,”

Eames can’t look away.

“I understand that perhaps I took things a bit far with Ms. Dess.” He whispers, firmly, “I shall issue her a hand written apology in the morning. Please see yourself out.”

For the first time since Eames has started working for Arthur, he hesitates.

Arthur is always coiled so tight, wound up into a chilling slab of sculpted marble; this is the first time Eames has seen a little heat, a smattering of shame,  _something._

Instead of feeling pleased that he has gotten his point across, that he has chiseled a crack into Arthur’s hard demeanor, he feels... something else.

He’s not sure what it is, his head still full of addicting blackness, madness seeping out of him as he tries to get a grasp on whatever it is that is happening, his chest heavy all of a sudden with that specific feeling of regret, _foolish, compromising Mal's hope, trust, her--_ he knows it's regret and _something else_ that has everything to do with the way the silence weighing heavy between them is charged and heady, interrupted only by the harsh sound of Arthur’s sharp staccato breaths.

It has everything to do with the way Arthur’s shoulders look; tight and firm and spread out, his head hanging in between them, a shock of hair falling onto his forehead. He looks almost—undone. 

Eames can’t look away.

He’s gotten a small taste of what Arthur could look like disheveled and cracked open, and. Eames did that. Caused that to happen. 

As a man with a detailed history of unhealthy vices and addictions, he recognizes one when it's heaving large calming breaths smack dab in front of him.

“Mr. Finch, sir—” Eames isn’t sure what he wants to say, isn’t sure what _to_ say. He just stands there, stupid with emptiness, having just threatened his employer, thinking about the heat in those eyes and how he wants to get it back. 

“Out,” Arthur snaps.

They stand there, Arthur with his elegant hands spread on his desk, hair falling onto his forehead, Eames with his hands loose at his side, silent.

 Arthur’s eyes are still closed.

Eames finally looks away, clearing his throat.

“You have a dinner with a potential client at Le Premier Goût in two and a half hours. If it’s all right with you, I’ll be going home early.”

Arthur clenches his jaw, and nods.

X.

Eames finds Ariadne in a supply closet on the 30th floor, bundles her up, and takes her home.

He doesn’t ask questions.

The only thing he says on the cab ride to his flat is a gruff, “It’s sorted.” She bites her lip, and leans into him, joking halfheartedly,

“Not your usual way, I hope. Cobb said he confiscated your gun.”

Eames doesn’t have it in him to reply.

Over Chinese take-out and Star Trek re-runs, he pieces together that Arthur had verbally ripped Ariadne’s latest project to shreds in front of Yusuf, the designer she specifically interns for, and the reason why she's had a lightness about her lately when talking about work; a carefully concealed joy, a silent burning wish. 

With Ariadne asleep, tucked in against the curve of his shoulder, Eames stares at the flickering television screen. Arthur had made things personal, so Eames had reciprocated; it was warranted.

TV glow hypnotizing, he remembers the heat, the tantalizing flush that had stained Arthur’s cheeks; the way Finch’s arms looked braced against the desk, the pointed beat of his breathing. The forger closes his eyes as he remembers the way Arthur had looked at him, all that focus, bright and hot and calculating and promising and frightful and _alive_.

Arthur had become stunning and breath-taking and carefully furious and something so containedly wild and chaotic, that, for a split second, he looked fit to explode; radiating something white-hot and possessive and demanding and ashamed and broken and lonely and _beautiful._

It was so opposed to how Eames had come to see Arthur, as a calculatingly cold in his meanness, ruthlessly self-involved and callous; something on the same plane, but _different._ Angry, and crass, pent-up pandemonium.

It makes Eames want to crack Arthur open and let it all out.

To lick his way past that cool exterior; to make him feel alive and wanted and uncovered and unrestrained and imperfectly perfect.

Eames wants to do that.

Ariadne shifts at his side and Eames remembers the way she had hurried out of Arthur’s office, posture composed, her face a deep burgundy.

And Eames remembers why he can’t let himself want to do that.

Because this is Arthur Finch.

Goddamn Arthur Finch. Grade A asshole, Devil in a bespoke suit.

Arthur Finch, who doesn’t know how to feel, who is a selfish spoiled prick.

Arthur Finch, who doesn’t know how fucking lucky he is, because the last man who made Ariadne cry had gotten his face bashed in with a tire iron.

X.

The next two weeks slog by and Eames is purposefully unruly but just competent enough, and Arthur is a self-righteous prat, so, nothing new.  

It’s not difficult work, once Eames figures out the best way to handle the ins and outs of Arthur’s ridiculously self-important requests, and his attempts to trip Eames up at every turn.

The forger calls in favours, uses Wikipedia extensively, sends emails to Ariadne, and, on a few occasions, calls Mal.

He finally settles himself into a groove.

Which is when the nine to five office work really starts to grate on him.

He starts to feel that unbearable itching underneath his skin, that shifting irritation of routine and order that _gets_ to him.

He hardly ever sees Finch. Which Eames is definitely okay with, he tells himself, _definitely_.

Arthur appears to be avoiding him, Eames would normally find this amusing if he wasn’t so fucking bored.

Instead he hates the way Finch won’t even use the intercom, sending him e-mail after condescendingly robotic e-mail, so that when Eames does see Finch he makes it a point to be as obnoxious and infuriating as possible, and just flirtatious enough to make Arthur uncomfortable.

But Eames still hasn’t seen that fire, that _something_ that he saw that first Friday. He can’t help himself from barbing and baiting Arthur in hopes that he might catch a glimpse of it again.

Eames isn’t used to being himself for such long periods of time. He desperately misses slipping someone else on, feeling the rush, the thrill of conning, _forging_.

He starts to find himself staring at his paints and canvas when he gets home, fingers clenching and unclenching. Until the familiar cool wave of dread and guilt and shame settle into his stomach, sinking like a stone, and he turns away.

He can’t; not yet. He doesn’t know if he’d even be _good_ anymore.  

Just when the monotony has overwhelmed him to _that_ point, the one Eames remembers from his time spent in solitary, the darkness and fear and gut-wrenching stifling boredom that threatens to make him do something stupid, he sees a flyer.

Tacked innocently on the local organizations bulletin at his neighborhood farmer's market. Pretending to peer closely at an ad for drunken yoga at the microbrewery down the block, he discreetly rips one of the tear-able addresses off the flyer and pockets it. 

This is how he finds himself sitting in a circle at Secretaries Anonymous surrounded by sensible blouses, sensible shoes, and cat-eye glasses.

“Alright, alright, let’s get started,” says a sharp looking woman with the biggest, bluest eyes Eames has ever seen and cheek bones that could cut; she turns to Eames all business, no nonsense,

“You there, you’re new—well, of course you’re new, I’m Roberta Fischer, the president of Secretaries Anonymous, and you are?”

“Eames,” says Eames.

“And you work for?”

“Arthur Finch.”

The room stills, and there are several gasps from the persons present. Roberta eyes him, pity pooling in her baby blues.

“Ah. Well, that explains why you’re here.”

Eames shrugs and scrubs his face.

“It’s just, getting to me is all.”

Roberta tsks knowingly and looks around,

“Most of us have worked for that piece of work, and the few of us who haven’t have heard the stories and never will. How long have you been working for him? By the looks of you, I’d say you’re at least on your ninth day.”

Eames looks up,

“Three weeks. At the end of this one it’ll be four.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” A woman with a wonderfully floral blouse says to his left,

“What?! Oh my God, he’s the next Mal!” says a secretary to his right.

“You know Mal?” Eames asks, turning to them.

“We all know Mal,” Roberta interrupts calmly, looking at Eames with something close to awe on her face, “she’s one of the reasons we started this little group.”

Eames nods. It’s something Mal would do.

“I lost a bet to Mal." The secretaries all sigh sympathetically, "It’s only until Mal’s had the baby and a month or so to rest-up, and then I’ll be done.” Eames says, shoulders shrugging in a sort of 'what can  you do' gesture.

“But she’s—” starts the floral blouse, another secretary butts in, his tie askew,

“Mal’s only two months along, are you saying you’re going to be working for Finch for _seven months?!”_

“Our agreement was eight.” Says Eames.

The silence in the room is deafening.

Fischer clears her throat, “alright Mr. Eames—well, welcome to Secretaries Anonymous, a safe place to vent about your employer and your job, get support, encouragement and sometimes help from secretaries who have been there, or are there.” She turns back to the circle of secretaries,

“Alright, my dearshow are we doing? Janice, how’s that lawyer you just started working for?”

Eames grins and relaxes, listening to the chatter around him, and for the first time in three weeks feels something like ease.

Eames is sipping at a coffee after the meeting, grimacing and wishing desperately that it was tea, when Roberta sidles over to him.

“Awe and reverence and all that aside, how are you really doing, Mr. Eames?” she asks, grabbing a doughnut.

“Just Eames is fine,” Eames takes another sip and puts his cup down to add more cream, “Finch is, he’s,” Eames sighs, “ _awful.”_

Roberta makes an understanding noise.

“It isn’t Finch though, I know that sounds batty, but it really isn’t all him that’s making this job fucking unbearable. It’s the boredom. Not to knock on your profession or anything, but I’m just not cut out for it, and I feel caged in and fit to explode and if I don’t do something soon, I’m afraid I’m going to fuck it all up.”

Eames clenches his Styrofoam cup, and Fischer puts a reassuring hand on his as he rolls his shoulders,

“I hate it. I fucking—but I _can’t_ let it get to me, I owe Mal. Not just the stupid bet; for…something else. And this is the only way I feel I can make it up to her.”

“You need to find a way to let off a little steam, Eames, perhaps pick up a hobby? Or see someone? I have the numbers of a few highly recommended therapists, and of course there’s always our little gatherings. Hang in there, it will get better, I promise.”

X.

Eames leaves Secretaries Anonymous feeling a little better, a little lighter, but with that burning itch grating underneath his skin.

It’s a Saturday evening, he’s _bored,_ and thinking about painting has him shivering, hurrying home to hop into the shower, throw on dark jeans and a faded green tee-shirt, and practically sprint to the nearest pub.

Some number of drinks, low growls of dark flirtation, and light teasing caresses later, Eames finds himself pounding a tall scrawny dark haired man into his mattress.

The man, John? Jake? Or was it Paul? vaguely resembles Arthur Finch, but Eames _isn't_  thinking about that right now, not as he deftly flips John/Jake/Paul over, the man underneath him moaning.

Eames definitely isn’t thinking about the soft bow of Arthur’s lips as he clenches his eyes shut and smooths a hand down the line of John/Jake/Paul's back.

John/Jake/Paul is moaning, and as Eames starts snapping his hips faster, John/Jake/Paul‘s arms give out and he collapses onto his elbows, face shoved roughly into the pillow, arse captured in Eames’ heavy grip, voice muffled.

Eames licks his lips and resolutely tries not to imagine Arthur underneath him, eyes hot and owning, unrelenting.

Eames’ pace is brutal and bruising as he imagines what sort of noises Arthur would make, as he imagines pinning Arthur down and fucking him so slowly and so thoroughly that Finch would be uncontrollably and completely undone.

Eames images Arthur keening, writhing, shouting his release. Would he shout Eames’ name? It's this thought that has Eames clenching, vision going white-hot, a low growl tearing out of his throat ending on a low, whispered, “ _darling.”_

Eames is so, completely fucked.

The forger is lucky that the next day is Sunday, and he has all morning to nurse his hang-over and a heavy stomach of shame. John/Jake/Paul is gentle and laughs, albeit kindly, when Eames asks for his number. He chucks Eames under the chin and kisses him on the corner of the mouth, and Eames swallows sharp guilt at the thought that he hadn't been present for the man leaving his flat with a wave over his shoulder.

He tries to swallow down dry toast, and ignore the low buzzing, the itching persistent want underneath his skin.  

X.

Monday is gray and disgustingly soggy and Eames is already in a mood and can’t deal with standing in the rain waiting for the bus, the passing cars sending sprays up onto his trousers.

It didn’t help that he’d accidentally punched a mirror that morning.

“Eames. Eames. It’s just a little obsession. That’s it. That’s all, a little obsession with something pretty that you want and can’t have.”

Eames is good at pep talks. Sort of. He'd been staring at himself in the mirror, just giving himself a few words of encouragement.

“Get over it, man. Ignore it. It’s nothing, eventually it will go away. Just focus on the fact that he’s an absolute git. That’ll do the trick.”

Eames had smiled at himself winningly.

And then punched his reflection for being such a stupid arsehole.

“If that was going to do the trick it would have worked already,” He'd growled into his fractured reflection before opening up the medicine cabinet to find the disinfectant.

Ariadne had to be in early, so Eames is standing alone at the stop, the minutes dragging by until the bus finally arrives, his mood growing blacker and blacker.

It didn’t help that that morning he had found a purple smudge on his neck, in-between his pulse-point and the collar of his paisley shirt.

His hand is throbbing, and he keeps clenching his fists in frustration, opening up the deeper cuts and the bus is _fucking_ late and christ almighty, pissing wanking mother fucking _**f**_ _ **uck**._

Arriving at the office a few minutes late he stalks to his desk, tears his coat off and runs a hand through his wet hair, sending raindrops flying.

He slumps into his chair, head in hands, steadily ignoring the irritating _ping!_ of his message inbox. The intercom crackles to life next to him,

“Mr. Eames I’ve sent you an important e-mail,” says Finch through the intercom.

Eames ignores it.

“Open your inbox,” whines the intercom again. Arthur sounds petulant. Eames smirks into his palms.

“Mr. Eames do you not _want_ your job?”

Eames sighs, and sits up slightly, jabbing a finger at the intercom “Alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” and clicks over to his inbox.

He doesn’t have time to open the first unread message from Arthur, because he looks down and sees that he's bled through the sloppy plasters on his knuckles, and a stream of dark blood is winding down his finger and pooling on the mouse.

“Fuck,” he snarls, and presses the button for the intercom,

“One moment, darling, heading to the loo,” and quickly rushes to the nearest toilet.

A pile of gauze and plasters on the counter, he’s just about to rinse his hand underneath the taps when the door to the bathroom bangs open.

“I’ve got a meeting in forty-five minutes, _Mister_ Eames, and I’d fucking appreciate it if you would—what the hell are you doing?”

Arthur is standing in the doorway angry, off-edge, and Eames can’t help grinning at him a little stupidly, because it’s been two weeks since he’s seen Arthur this worked up, and this isn’t even worked up, this is just slightly rumpled and a little raised voice, but it makes the pain dull slightly in Eames’ knuckles, and he turns slightly, and waves his hand a little at Arthur, and grimaces because that was a bad idea.

He shrugs in Arthur’s direction, losing momentum, and too fucking tired and bored to snark back at Finch, and he can feel his heartbeat in his hand.

Arthur stares at Eames like he’s growing another head, and his mouth is slightly open and he’s breathing a little heavily, like he jogged to get to the bathroom, and Eames sees that Arthur’s tie is slightly askew, and that makes Eames feel simultaneously ashamed and pleased and proud and he’s so fucking confused, so he apologizes.

“Sorry, darling, had a bit of an altercation with some glass—”

And he feels stupid for saying darling, because Arthur rolls his eyes at the endearment, and thinks it's Eames barbing him, baiting him, but Eames thinks maybe, and he’ll blame it on the loss of blood later—even though it isn’t much—maybe he means the darling just a little bit.

He’ll address that later.

Because Arthur is turning on his heel and saying, “My office. Now.” With no room for argument in his voice, so Eames follows him holding a bit of paper towel to his hand like a fucking puppy. And he hates it. He thinks.

Finch closes the door of his office behind Eames and points to the chair. Eames sits.

Sitting across from him, Arthur grabs a simple medicine kit from one of his drawers.

Eames raises his eyebrows,

“Always best to be prepared.” Arthur clips, not looking him in the eye. He holds out his hand towards Eames, and Eames stares at it.

Arthur huffs, “C’mon I’ve got a meeting in,” he looks at his watch, “thirty-three minutes, so hurry the fuck up and give me your goddamn hand.”

Eames hastily gives Arthur his hand, wincing, breath held in anticipation.

Arthur’s hand is cool and firm and Eames’ heart stops a little, and he’s not sure why. 

Eames stares at their hands as Arthur leans forward to peer at Eames’ torn-up knuckles. His eyebrows are pinched together, and the corners of his lips are turned down, and Eames can feel the ghost of Arthur’s breath on his fingertips as he examines Eames’ cuts.

“Hm.” Is all he says as he rummages with one hand in the kit, his other hand still holding onto Eames’.

The forger can’t reply, his mouth is dry, so fucking dry like the Sahara and _God,_ he needs a drink.

Finch is still looking for something in the medicine box and lets out a noise of triumph when he finds it; he looks into Eames’ eyes brandishing his find: tweezers.

Eames quickly decides he doesn’t like the way Arthur’s eyes are gleaming and tries to pull his hand away, wincing in pain,

“Got all the glass out this morning, actually, if you’d just let me go back to the bathroom and sop up some of the blood I can—”

“Hold still Mr. Eames, you missed a piece.” Arthur leans forward, pulling Eames battered hand towards himself.

Eames holds still. Very fucking still.

The room is silent and heavy, their breathing punctuating the silence like carefully placed commas and ellipses.

Eames grunts as Arthur digs between his second and third knuckle, into the longest deepest gash, and Arthur tightens his hold on Eames’ hand. The pressure is still light, almost gentle but it's weighing and strangling and Eames can’t breathe and he needs a goddamn drink.

Finch is concentrating on his task, face close to Eames’ fingers and he can feel hot breath in, out, in, out. Arthur's tongue darts out occasionally to lick at his lips and Eames stares as they trail moisture across the softness.

Eames swallows loudly when Arthur sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites on it, the flesh going white around the teeth.

“Got it!” Arthur wields the tweezers holding up a bit of mirror and smiling triumphantly.

Eames’ heart stops.

Arthur’s smile is small and private and it starts at his eyes; thin laugh-lines crinkling from the corners, and it ends with his dimples, flashing and graceful, and Eames can’t stand it.

And then the smile stops.

The hold on his hand increases exponentially. Arthur’s hand is crushing his and Eames hisses in pain, white flashing behind his eyes.

Arthur is staring at Eames’ neck, and Eames is confused until he remembers the hickey, and he tries to clears his throat, and he feels too hot, and Arthur won’t let go of his hand.

Arthur is squeezing his bloody hand and Eames can feel his heart rate ratchet up and he can barely breathe, and his hand is throbbing and the pain is both sharp and dull and he can feel warm trails of blood streaming down and staining Arthur’s palm; dripping onto the desk.

Arthur’s eyes are heated and dark, possessive and furious, “what—” he breathes, and then his expression shutters and Eames is left looking at Arthur Finch, CEO.

He drops Eames’ hand like its burnt him, and recoils from the desk, standing sharply and turning to face the floor to ceiling windows behind him. Eames sits. And waits. Unable to think.  _T_ _he bloody fuck?_

“Don’t just sit there,” Finch’s tone is hard stone, coated with condescension, “bleeding out all over my desk. Grab some gauze and get out.”

Eames stands. He can deal with this Arthur; he has a better grip of who _this_ person is. Sort of. Not really.

_The bloody fuck?!_

“Alright, alright," Eames says, defensive, cupping one hand under the other to catch any blood drips, Arthur ignores him, staring out the window.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee?” Eames aims for sarcastic, is pretty sure he misses, grabs a few wipes and bandages from the medicine kit and stalks to the door, “Jesus, not like I even asked for your help.”

He turns as he’s closing the door, and sees Arthur at the window, staring down at his hand covered in Eames’ blood.

 _What. The bloody. Fuck._  


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRUNCH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for sticking with this story.  
> the next chapter will be up sooner than you think ;)

**III.**

 “Yusuf and I are having lunch tomorrow.”

Eames cradles his phone in the crook of his shoulder, smashing it painfully against an ear as he tries to open a bottle of wine.

“Well, technically it’s to review my progress as an intern, but he’s agreed to look over my portfolio and give me a critique and some pointers. What should I do with my hair?”

Eames doesn’t answer because he doesn’t—but for the record he wishes he could—give a fuck.

And also he’s managed to uncork the wine and ‘letting it breathe’ is for wankers and expensive wine, and this shit is cheap and it doesn't matter because he's already guzzling it.

It’s been six days since that morning with the tweezers and the mirror and the private personal smile in Arthur’s office, and Finch has been stonewalling him. He sends Eames emails from god knows where, since Eames hasn’t seen him in his office, and.

Eames would be impressed if he weren’t cottoned in layers of nothingness and boredom and the fluff of monotony.

“Wear it down. Slightly-tousled,” Eames manages around a gulp of wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Are you drinking alone on a Saturday night? Do you want company? Hypothetically if I just randomly showed up with approximately thirteen different outfit combinations, would you be upset?”

Eames hears the doorbell ring and hangs up.

X

“Arthur hasn’t spoken to me in six days,” Eames says, drunk and low and quiet.

He and Ariadne are sprawled out on his couch, approximately thirteen different outfit combinations and several empty bottles of wine strewn around them.

Ariadne props up onto an elbow to look over at Eames.

“We had this weird…” Eames scrubs a hand down his face, “moment. In his office on Monday, and. I don’t know, he’s been avoiding me.”

Ariadne raises an eyebrow and takes a swig of wine.

“You aren’t really helping your ‘I despise him’ argument if you’re already mooning about like a jilted lover one month in.”

Eames growls at her and snatches away the wine,

“Whatever miss ‘What do I wear?! Does this scarf make me look like I'm good at drafting? Will this shade bring out the colour of my eyes and make Mr. Perfect Goatee fall madly in love with my blueprints?!’”

Ariadne smacks him.

“Alright lover-boy, so why do you care? Isn’t it better without him breathing down your neck?”

Eames pulls long at the bottle, swallowing slowly.

“I don’t know. God Ariadne, I’m so fucking _bored;_ any chance to get under his skin is— at the very least— entertainment, and…what the hell are you doing?”

Ariadne guiltily looks up at him from the screen of her glowing phone, thumbs dancing madly across the keypad,

“Nothing, just multi-tasking; carry on, I promise I’m listening diligently to your plight, confess your pain, I’m all ears.”

Eames sulks.

“Jesus, I’m just texting—” the doorbell to Eames’ flat rings, she jumps up and heads to the door.

Eames scowls at the garish scarves peppering his coffee table and mutters lowly about privacy as Ariadne waltzes back into the room with Dom in tow.

“What’s all this I hear about painful confessions and unspoken lust? Oh my god is that alcohol?!”

Eames’ scowl darkens as Dom plucks the bottle from his hand and starts to chug.

“I fucking hate you both.”

Ariadne tips over the arm of the couch and rests her head in Eames’ lap, batting her eyelashes up at him coquettishly, “Aw, no you don’t you rough burly forger, you.”

Dom keeps gulping madly.

Ariadne gestures at Cobb, “Don’t mind him, the beautiful woman we all know and love," she recites, "he _insanely_ thought was a good idea to marry and then knock-up has banned alcohol under the premise of ‘if she can’t have it, neither can he’.”

Dom nods wearily, tipping the last of the wine into his mouth.

Eames stands, “I’ll go get the hard stuff.”

X

Oh dear lord. All of the— _any_ of the gods, Eames is hung-over and his phone is ringing loudly.

He takes a crack at opening his eyes.

Bright light streams in sharply. His head swims and thuds, his stomach spins and he closes his eyes quickly.

_Bad idea, Eames, bad. Bad._

“Nyurgh.” He tries. He licks his lips, his tongue feels dull and heavy and thick-- and not in a sexy way.

His head, oh god his _head_ feel _s_ like someone is squeezing it through a lemon press lined with razor blades.

Eames is on…the couch he surmises by the way his neck feels cramped and horrid, and the fabric under his cheek is stiff and scratchy.

“…mphruug…phone,” Dom calls weakly from the floor.

Eames shields a hand over his eyes and slowly, _cautiously,_ cracks his eyes open again.

Blinking, he makes out Dom curled around a bottle of scotch, a pillow over his head.

“…fucking interns, like it’s their right to claim the bed…” comes through the downy pillow, muffled.

The phone bleats again, indignant, and Eames glances at his watch and –JesusfuckingChrist it’s ten-thirty in the morning. A Sunday morning. It’s basically the middle of the fucking night.

“Where?” Eames croaks, hands over his ears, Dom points vaguely in the direction of the book-shelf and removes the pillow briefly to take a swig of alcohol.

“Seriously? Are you—” Eames’ stomach roils then lurches,

“It helps, hair of the cat, honest it. Helps. Pick up that goddamn phone before I do something stupid like break this bottle over your coffee table and stab you in the face with it.”

Eames looks down at the couch, and then over to the bookshelf. A metre and a half? Maybe two? His inner turmoil about the millions of kilometres away the bookshelf seems to be is interrupted by the phone ringing again and causing white hot pain. Everywhere. The forger calls on deities, finds strength within, and pushes himself upwards.

Staggering blindly toward the bookshelf, he leans against it scrabbling for a hold and picks up his phone.

Voice sleep-rough and hung-over cracked he answers,

“Hello?”

“Finally. I’ve called you seven times Mr. Eames. Where the hell are you?” Eames just. He can’t.

Sure, he didn’t want Finch ignoring him anymore, because—and he could admit this to himself in the quiet of his own head—the dreary sludge of boring that was file managing at Finch and Sons Architecture was slightly alleviated when he could pester Arthur, but he didn’t want the man calling him _basically_ in the middle of the night. On his day off.

Also he is extremely hung-over. _Extremely_.

“I’m at home, where are you?”

“Coming to get you. Did you not read the email I sent you last night? Or listen to your voicemail messages? I left you two. One detailing that I needed you on call this morning and the other detailing that I need you to accompany me to a brunch in appropriate attire.” Eames snorts, Arthur pauses, but only briefly, “The brunch is to meet with Saito, a very important potential client and I need you to take notes, confer with his personal assistant, etc.”

At the lengthy silence (Eames’ stomach churning at the idea of ‘brunch’) Arthur sighs exasperatedly, “You didn’t read the email, or listen to the messages did you?”

Nope.

“You do know what ‘on call’ means, yes? It means that you have your phone on you and you answer it within the third ring. It means that that phone is your everything and I am the god calling on it. Next time you are on call I want you to answer by the third ring. I don’t care if you spend your entire on call period with the phone on a desk staring at it.”

Eames closes his eyes and groans because, damnit, Arthur’s incessant prattling is actually somewhat soothing. He needs to see a therapist.

“I’ve pulled your address from our records, and—optimistically speaking of course, if you didn’t fake that as well as everything else on your CV, I am outside of your building. See you in five.”

Arthur hangs up. Eames had, unfortunately, not listed a false address, and now he is regretting it.

Before he has time to think about moving, his phone chirrups,

**APROPRIATE ATTIRE.**

Eames saves the number into his phone as ‘Darling’ before he can over-think it and sends back,

**Brew will take a few, give us ten, yeah**

He runs into his room to find Ariadne, realizes that she has already absconded with a brilliant outfit to her breakfast with Yusuf, and runs back out to the living room.

“What is appropriate attire to a brunch?!” He yells down at Dom a little violently,

Cobb slowly lifts the pillow from his head, brings the bottle of scotch to his lips and says,

“Give me a minute.”

X

What ‘appropriate attire’ to brunch according to Arthur is: a tailored three-piece dove gray suit and buttoned up sex appeal.

To Eames, under Cobb’s advisement, it's an old pair of chino's that are snug in the thigh, a tucked in jean button-up shirt he found in the back of his closet, and a navy Ralph Lauren blazer that Dom had in the trunk of his car that is a little tight across the shoulders, but that hides the paint stains on the cuff of Eames’ left sleeve effectively.

Eames unceremoniously slides into the back seat of the car with Arthur, and proceeds to stare blatantly and brazenly at all that suited up goodness as Finch signals to the driver. Eames can’t help himself; it’s morning, and he’s hung over, and his faculties just _aren’t_ online yet.

Arthur turns, catches him staring, and clears his throat. Eames flinches and averts his gaze to the blur just outside the window and then feels immediately ridiculous, because he’s Eames—he should have turned all that obvious staring into a salacious smirk. To unnerve Arthur. _Stupid. Slipping;_ it’s making his head swim.

Finch glances down at Eames’ hands,

“Where is your ‘brew’?” Eames can hear the quotations.

Eames opens his mouth and then shuts it again. Damn. He left it on top of Cobb's car.

They ride in silence for a few minutes, “I noticed you seem to have acquired your jacket from the back of a man’s vehicle. Was that some sort of menswear underground black market? Does he deal exclusively outer-wear, or?”

Eames opens his mouth again, because it sounds like Arthur Finch might have just made a joke.

“No he’s just a friend.” It’s too early for conversation. Arthur stiffens slightly, and glances sideways at Eames,

“Oh,” he says too casually, “Is he your…?”

Eames guffaws and then chokes on some spit, which really doesn’t help the ringing in his ears, and he just gasps out,

“No, oh god, no. He’s Mal’s husband.”

“Oh.” Arthur sits back slightly and looks out the window.

A few more silent minutes pass, and Eames is wondering if Arthur will notice if he leans his forehead against the cool pane of the window, when he sees in the reflection of the glass that Arthur is staring at his neck.

He turns to look at his employer and Finch blushes faintly at being caught— just a slight smudging across his cheeks and the tips of his ears and Eames thinks he’s developing arrhythmia, and has swallowing always been this difficult? The blush is beautiful and does nothing to clear the fog in his head.

“Your hair is wet.” Arthur says by way of explanation, gesturing at Eames’ collar, where there’s a dark damp patch.

“Didn’t have much time to dry it properly,” Eames mumbles. Goddamn it, he needs caffeine. 

“Hm,” says Arthur, and Eames looks up.

 Finch looks at him, his eyes flickering over his face noting scruff, bleary blood-shot eyes and. Arthur’s eyes narrow slightly,

“Are you hung over? You’re hung over.”

Eames resolutely does not dignify that statement with an answer and stares once again out the window.

He hears Arthur chuckle soft and rich and dark and bitter like chocolate, and it’s an odd sound to hear coming from Finch, and Eames decides that he likes it.

Gods be damned.

X

Brunch is...

Eames searches for an appropriate word.

...tense.

They’ve just sat down at a painfully posh restaurant that only serves breakfast, and Eames doesn’t really care, he just hopes they have good coffee.

The person they're meeting with hasn’t arrived. Eames slumps back into his chair, eyeing Arthur. This isn’t an easy feat; Finch insisted that Eames sit one table over, so Eames has to awkwardly angle himself in his seat so that he can growl and glare at Finch, making goddamn sure that Finch gets the full unadulterated blare of Eames’ hung-over wrath.

“Sit up straight Mr. Eames,” Arthur snaps, waving a waitress over.

Eames barely obliges, only slightly pushing himself up on his seat, raising a mocking eyebrow at Arthur.

Arthur ignores him and orders a mimosa. Eames looks up at their waitress with a sultry grin; flirtation grants efficiency.

“A vat of coffee please, love, as fast as you can.” The waitress laughs sympathetically, tucking a bit of hair behind an ear, and hurries off. Eames smiles because, hung-over or not, he's still got it.

Arthur snorts beside him, and then stands quickly, one of his professional smiles notching into place.

“Arthur,” Eames hears, and turns slightly in his chair.

Arthur is saying “Saito” in a business-like voice that is edged with warmth, and clasping the hand of a sharply dressed Asian man; kind, genuine smile.

Eames stands, because he can see the waitress behind Saito with coffee, and if he stands he can reach farther to grab it from her and get it sooner.

Ignoring everything he grabs the overly large mug and brings the steaming elixir to his mouth inhaling deeply before taking a sip.

“Oh God,” the forger groans rapturously, sitting back down, licking his lips.

Arthur coughs that maddening cough, and Eames waits a few seconds in caffeine bliss before looking up at him darkly.

Finch’s face is pinched sour and unpleasant; his eyebrows are furrowed disapprovingly.

“Right, right, neither seen nor heard, got it. I’ll be Buster Bluth, scouts honour,” Eames mutters into his coffee, slumping back into his chair.

Saito moves to sit across from Arthur, giving Eames a slight nod and cool easy eye-contact.

Eames feels slightly disgruntled and unnerved, but then he remembers the coffee and it doesn’t matter anymore.

Turns out, Eames really didn’t need to be at that fucking meeting.

He doesn’t realize this until he’s half way through an obscenely large stack of pancakes dusted with walnuts and powdered sugar, dripping with butter, smothered in maple syrup; and the coffee finally kicks in.

He isn’t paying any attention at all to the conversation, and Saito didn’t bring a personal assistant.

Arthur appears to be completely capable of taking gregariously copious notes from the looks of him; dark head bent over a black moleskin, pencil scribbling furiously as he continues arguing with Saito over something arbitrary.

“For fucks sake,” Eames mutters around a mouthful of the most delicious pancakes he’s ever tasted, which earns a dark look from Arthur.

Just his luck. That the moment he wishes for Arthur to stop ignoring him he does—by interrupting his day off.

A day he most likely would have spent languidly getting over his hang-over, wanking, wallowing in self-pity, and hearing all about Ariadne’s breakfast date with Yusuf in agonizing analysing detail. Probably more than once.  Most likely he won’t be able to avoid that last one.

At least he gets a free breakfast out of this.

Still though—mother fucking shite.

Eames puts his knife and fork down, unable to finish the rest of his pancakes. He resolutely ignores the meeting going on beside him, sulkily he sinks lower and lower in his chair, eventually only moving to signal to the waitress that he requires more damn coffee.

She slides up to the table, refilling his cup slowly, eyeing him suggestively. He glances to his right.

Finch and Saito seem to be going over buttresses or some bollocks, and so he sits up straighter, turns to the waitress and smiles.

She tilts her head a bit, so he grabs her wrist and rubs his thumb over her pulse point.

Eames fucks her in the men’s bathroom, the smell of urine and syrup making him feel sick.

When they’ve finished she slips off the counter, pulls up her knickers, and straightens her skirt—she smiles at him in the mirror as he washes his hands and she fixes her hair.

“Later," she says, moving to the door. Eames hears it open and freezes when he hears her say,

“Oh, sorry sir, I just—forgot. Um.” He looks up into the mirror and sees her skirting around a very stone faced Arthur.

Eames opens his mouth to say something, but Arthur beats him to the punch, his voice dripping with something that's trying for disgust and hitting on disappointment,

“If you’ve quite finished Mr. Eames, the car is round front.”

Finch turns, smashes something into the bin near the door and exits the restroom.

Eames closes his mouth and walks to the door; peering into the bin he sees a ruined takeaway box filled with the rest of his pancakes.

Arthur had had his leftovers boxed up.

Eames allows himself an audible moan/sigh in the privacy of the bathroom and opens the door.

X

The black company car is sidling outside the restaurant, and Eames opens the door and leans his forearm against it, ducking his head to lean in a little and say,

“If it’s alright with you Mr. Finch, I think I’ll just call a cab.”

Arthur grabs Eames’ rumpled jean shirt and pulls him into the car. Eames almost bashes his face open on the way in.

“Jesus, what the fuck—”

“Sit there and shut up,” Arthur says through clenched teeth, “Mr. Eames.”

Nope. Eames has had enough of this shit, he’s no longer compliant due to hangover, and he's more than a little peeved about this whole interrupting his Sunday thing, and just. Nope.

“You sanctimonious bastard—this is _J.Crew,_ ” Eames says indignant as shit, “Just because—”

Eames doesn’t get to finish that thought because Arthur turns to him and ohdeargod he’s really fucking pissed.

Eames hates that that turns him on just a little bit.

Finch grabs him by both shoulders and shoves him against the car door. The angle is uncomfortable and there is something jabbing into Eames’ back and the driver must be paid really fucking well because he’s completely unfazed, just driving along as if his boss isn’t about to murder the shit out of his personal assistant.

Arthur’s eyes glint and spark, and all that narrowed focused heat turned on Eames makes him feel hot and possessed and proud and breathless and goddamn it, his trousers do _not_ feel a little tighter. Fuck.

Finch’s fingers are digging into Eames’ upper arms and Eames is sure he’s going to have bruises later and that thought should definitely not ratchet up his arousal. But it does.

Arthur smiles slowly, cruelly, like he knows what this is doing to Eames, and he leans in, pressing his chest against Eames’ to bring his lips to the forger’s ear.

Eames can hear his own heart beating in his ears—booming so loud and fast that he’s sure Arthur must be able to hear it too. He can feel Arthur’s chest firmly against his, breathing fast and laboured, and he can feel Arthur’s searing breath against the shell of his ear as he whispers blackly,

“You embarrassed me you little shit.” Arthur’s voice is sinuous and rough with anger.

Eames is so hard it’s painful, and the collar of his shirt is too tight and he clamps his eyes shut, out of desperation or hope he’s not entirely sure; possibly both, maybe neither.

“Did you like it? Did it feel good to fuck that waitress on company time? On _my_ time?”

Eames doesn’t dare try to breathe, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. He could shove Arthur away, he’d gotten out of far more complicated holds, he could...he could... He can’t think.

“Answer me,” Arthur whispers.

Eames tries, honest to god he tries, but then he feels Arthur’s tongue barely rasping over his ear as Finch licks his lips.

He whimpers.

Arthur tenses, seconds stretch between them taunt and tight, anticipatory; laden with tension. Drenched and saturated with strangled breaths.

Arthur jolts back, his face flickering from shock to guilt to something dark and secret to something blank.

Eames barely catches it all it happens to fast.

“Get the fuck out of my car. I’ll see you Monday.”

The forger doesn’t remember getting out of the car. He finds himself facing his apartment, legs shaking slightly. Forehead damp with sweat, smelling of pancakes, sex, and Arthur.

He finds Dom sleeping on his couch, this time a bottle of Vodka held tightly against his chest.

Eames shakes him awake.

Dom takes one look at Eames and silently hands him the bottle.

That night, liquor-buzzed and hands shaking, he comes in the shower to the memory of Arthur’s tongue ghosting against his ear and the dull ache of bruises on his skin.

X

Dom is a fucking rat.

Ariadne is a betraying little betrayer.

And Mal is on his front doorstep offering to drive him to work.

Eames sighs and grabs his scarf and coat because arguing with Mal is like arguing with a brick wall. Pointless.

The ride is quiet at first, Eames sipping at a coffee Mal handed to him silently, of course it couldn’t last.

“Dom tells me that you had an interesting day yesterday,” Mal says glancing at him.

“Dom needs to learn to keep his mouth shut,” Eames grunts.

“I wonder if this bet is too much Eames, even for the debt you owe me. Honestly I thought that you would quit after a few days, maybe a little longer, but dearest—”

“Mal,” Eames turns in his seat to look at her, “I’m the reason you got caught. Why we had to relocate here. Why you haven’t seen your father in over a year. Why we’ve had to give up conning—”

She tries to shush him but Eames puts his hands up and barrels on, “My stupid ego, Mal, my fucking pride. I don’t know why I signed that fucking thing; Christ I don’t know, I’m a reckless arsehole and then I boasted about it to a one night stand. A goddamn—”

Mal’s fingers clench the steering wheel, her jaw working,

“I’m the reason Mal. So stupid and selfish and proud; I knew what the risks were, and I didn't care, I knew it wouldn’t be me who—“ he chokes, voice down to a low whisper, filled with self-loathing, “—you were the fence. And I knew it would put you at risk, and I still— you’re the one who got caught with the forge. It should have been me, Jesus I can’t even paint any more, Mal. I have to do this. Just. I have to.”

They pull up in front of Finch & Son, and Mal unbuckles her seatbelt and pulls Eames in tight, wrapping him up in a warm hug.

“You don’t have to do this, my little thief,” she says quiet and protective. “You don’t have to do this on my behalf.”

Eames nods quickly and smiles, grabbing his coffee and waving as he dashes up to the building; guilt washing over him in gut-wrenching waves.

He isn’t doing it for Mal—he’s a selfish bastard through and through. He’s doing it for himself. Maybe if he feels enough of his debt has been paid, if he suffers enough— he'll be able to paint again.

The elevator releases him at his floor and he glances at his wristwatch, shit—he’s a minute late, Arthur is going to be furious, Arthur is going to.

Arthur is standing at his desk smiling like a complete lunatic.

Fuck.

Eames stops. And then starts again, edging slowly to his desk.

Finch claps him on the back as he hangs up his coat.

Claps him. On the back. Like they’re fucking colleagues meeting for brandy at the country club and saying things like ‘old sport’.

Eames sits down, avoiding eye-contact. Maybe if he doesn’t acknowledge Arthur’s presence Finch will just go away.

“I got the Saito account!” Arthur proclaims when Eames has fully booted up his computer, still resolutely avoiding eye-contact.

Arthur sounds happy-bright and joyful, and Eames swivels around in his chair and looks up and, _god_.

Arthur is gorgeous. Unabashedly beaming and yes, those are definitely dimples, and his face is shining like the mother fucking sun and Eames feels his own smile stretch crooked teeth in between plush lips, and he wants to reach up and thumb over Arthur’s lips; touch them, taste them.

Eames knows two things in that moment with Arthur smiling down at him and nattering on about Saito and this big account.

One: he’s going to have to break that promise he made to himself and fuck Arthur, prat or not and

Two: he wants that smile directed at him all the fucking time.

Arthur in a good mood is lovely; it’s like a holiday. He has Eames clear his schedule for the morning and they hole up in his office and Arthur sketches and talks, and Eames takes stupid nonsensical notes and basks in it.

Eames looks at his watch and, realizing it’s noon, discreetly pulls out his phone and texts an old friend. Half an hour later Arthur has loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves steam from chopsticks full of pad thai gently kissing his face.

Arthur is talking around his noodles, eagerly brainstorming this building—it’s going to be beautiful, Eames can tell. Where Arthur seems rigid, straightforward, unrelenting, up-tight and unimaginative, his ideas are genius. Sleek, modern structures that open up into winding staircases and soaring ceilings and hard unbroken lines, Eames can’t help it and he starts to sketch quietly on a corner of paper as he listens.

He draws designs of Arthurs imagination and he cracks them open subtly, little flourishes of imagination, pockets of unexplainable proportions and beauty—a blend of Arthur.

Unforgiving and stubborn and hard-hearted exterior giving way to barely restrained unbridled passion on the interior. Steps that led to no-where, Eames sketches unconstrained chaotic destinations. He looks up when he realizes that Arthur has stopped talking.

Finch is looking at his sketches and his mouth is open slightly, and Eames’ heart is in his throat so he puts down his pen and balls up the paper and leaves.

Eames sits at his desk staring at his computer—he doesn’t know for how long—and when he looks back through the glass window of Arthur’s office he sees the man slowly smoothing out the paper of his drawings.

He puts his head in his hands and breathes deeply.

X

“Where did you learn how to draw like that?” the question comes later that evening as Eames is wrapping a scarf around his neck, readying himself to go home to a night of angst and stressful wanking.

Eames takes his time buttoning up his coat before he turns and looks at Arthur, cocking his head slightly,

“I learned to draw like that at art school.”

“ _You_ went to art school?!”

Eames grins at the shocked look gracing Arthur’s face,

“Yes, I went to art school—but the crazy, heady life of the big city called to me, and now I’m a secretary! Living the dream.” Eames sardonically shoulders his bag and starts towards the elevator. 

“Eames. You—you’re very good.” Arthur says to his retreating back. Eames stops.

“What did you do, before you became my secretary?” Eames’ head pounds and his stomach drops.

“I was a,” Eames pauses, searching for something close enough to the truth—he feels he owes Finch something—a concession, a small confession, “I was a painter.”

He hears Arthur step closer, “Would I have seen something you’ve done?”

Eames laughs harsh and hollow, “Probably. See you tomorrow Mr. Finch.”

Instead of heading home Eames takes a cab to the pub and drinks until he can’t remember who he is. He thinks if he drinks enough to try and forget who Arthur is he’ll die of alcohol poisoning first.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

The next two weeks are like a montage out of a John Hughes film—Arthur isn’t as kind or as warm as he was the day he landed the Saito account, but he isn’t as cold or dickish as he was before. It’s almost nice, Eames thinks.

Of course it can’t last.

It all goes to hell at the office Halloween party.

Eames loves Halloween. It is by far his favourite holiday, getting to dress up like someone else and being given sweets. It’s conning at its core—being someone else and having people hand you things you want. It’s brilliant; tricks _and_ treats.

He hefts his blaster pistol in his left hand and raps loudly on the door to Ariadne’s bathroom again,

“Alright in there, love? Need some help?”

“I hate you so much right now Eames, you have no idea.”

Eames guffaws loudly as Ariadne steps out of the bathroom looking like a walking carpet.

“I think you make a wonderful Chewie to my Han Solo,” Eames gasps out, chortling madly. Ariadne growls and elbows him in the stomach.

“You should learn not to make bets against me in monopoly, I am the property king!”

“I still maintain that you cheated, you dickhole! And I was unbelievably inebriated; I was rolling under the influence! This is cruel and unusual punishment, Eames.”

Eames smirks.

“C’mon fur ball, let’s go turn some heads.”

X

 _Of course_ Arthur would wear a suit to a Halloween party. Eames mingles and enjoys flirting with the office interns and Ariadne glowers next to him, actively avoiding Yusuf and trying to eat canapés without getting hair in her mouth.

Everyone praises their collaboration which makes Ariadne's glower more heated and Eames’ smirk more triumphant.

He’s double fisting two glasses of champagne and talking to Spock when he feels someone come up behind him.

“Han Solo? How very appropriate.” 

Eames turns around slowly, chugging the champagne to give himself time to think of a response.

Instead he gives Finch the full Eames once-over, starting at his smart polished shoes and working up over the lines and curves of his black suit, finishing at his—

His glasses. Arthur is wearing glasses.

Eames chokes on his drink and ignores Arthur openly laughing at him as he coughs champagne out of his nostrils.

“You would wear a suit to an office Halloween party.” Eames says then, meanly.

Arthur’s laughter is replaced by a frown, his eyebrows furrowing deliciously above black square frames.

“Not even going to have a guess at what I am Mr. Eames?”

Eames stands back a little to properly look over Arthur, finishing up his other glass of champagne, and noting that the top button on Arthur’s shirt is undone and his hair isn’t completely slicked back—there’s a lock brushed forwards in almost a—no. No fucking way. Oh my god.

“You’re Clark Kent.” Eames says, relishing the surprise on Arthur’s face, and deciding that he doesn’t need to engage in any conversations with anyone he doesn’t want to while he’s only tipsy, and turns on his heel to find someone carrying a try of alcohol.

He doesn’t get far.

“You’re the first person who hasn’t guessed James Bond.” Finch says, following him like a goddamn puppy and Eames dodges a Ghost and a Cowboy, and finds a waiter.

“You couldn’t pull off Bond, darling; you’re too much of a stick-in-the-mud I’m afraid.” Eames says while downing another flute of champagne.

“Excuse me, sir—yes you with the tray, could you possibly find me something a little more…” Eames gives his empty glass a disdainful look, “potent?”

The waiter splutters and looks at Finch. Arthur ignores him.

“I am _not_ a stick-in-the-mud.” The waiter gawkes.

Eames twirls the stem thoughtfully, “Oh but you are. You’ve got imagination, you’ve got vision,” Eames almost stops when he sees Arthur beaming proudly at that, and he grips his glass harder because the whole dimples-glasses combo is, bluntly, _fucking amazing._ “But you just need to learn to dream a little bigger, darling.”

Finch flinches. And Eames should have stopped at the praise, because Arthur doesn’t take criticism well—even if Eames meant it (almost) as constructive, and seriously—losing the dimples-glasses combo is tragic. Hamlet tragic. _Fuck._

Arthur levels him with a look that’s hard to read. His eyes glint behind the frames, and his body is coiled beneath the suit, like something dark and wild and twisted.

Eames doesn’t know what to do, which is a feeling he’s becoming familiar with around Arthur and not enjoying very much, but the waiter interrupts with a cough.

“Oh, sod off.” Eames growls.

Arthur takes a step towards Eames, and Eames defensively opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to mind,

“You should wear glasses more often.”

Arthur takes a step back, bewildered and cocks his head considering.

“I prefer contacts.” He says, stalking off into the crowd.

Eames lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and turns to go find a corner to sulk in.

Turns out Arthur isn’t just Clark Kent.

As the evening progresses the buttons on his shirt become more unbuttoned and Eames realizes that Arthur is Clark Kent turning into Superman.

By ten o’clock Arthur’s shirt is completely undone, there’s a lock of his dark hair standing out in a pronounced ‘s’ against his forehead, but that isn’t what makes Eames mind start to blank.

It’s the fucking spandex.

Arthur has ditched the glasses, unfortunately, but Eames can’t find it in himself to care as he watches Arthur from his dark corner, unable to even consume alcohol; because the man schmoozing around the party is more complicated and intriguing than Eames could have ever imagined.

Maybe Eames is the one who needs to learn to dream a little bigger.

Eames decides that he’s had enough sulking, and enough pining, _Christ,_ and sets off to find Ariadne.

Ariadne is talking to Yusuf. Who is dressed as Lando fucking Calrissian and Eames face-palms so hard he's pretty sure he left a bruise.

Eames back-peddles looking for someone to talk to and sees Arthur emerge from his office in full out Superman spandex costume and he can’t.

He bolts.

To the roof.

The air is crisp and cool and clean and bathes Eames’ face in rolling waves of October; he leans back against the pristine slab of cement behind him and looks out across the city.

His fingers itch for a sketchbook, a pen, a brush, a bit of charcoal and his heart seizes and leaps into his throat and he leans over, hands braced on his knees, and for some ungodly reason starts having a panic attack.

Guilt wracks his body in unforgiving spasms; overwhelmingly so much more than the twinge of guilt he usually feels when he thinks about making art. Relentless and intoxicating, seeping into his bones, shame, self-hatred – he can’t; he doesn’t deserve it. This is his penance.

Sweat breaks out on his forehead and he grips the fabric of his trousers as he unsuccessfully tries to control his breathing.

Eames’ vision tunnels as the words “selfish bastard” beat a tattoo against the inside of his skull; he realizes he is murmuring the words aloud between breaths.

Suddenly arms are pulling him upright, and someone is sliding behind him in-between his body and the cool wall behind.

His eyes are clenched shut, and he realizes belatedly that tears are leaking out of them and slowly blazing trails down his cheeks.

He can’t stop the words biting out of his mouth as he struggles for breath.

“…selfish bastard, you fucking selfish bastard,”

“Shh. Shh. Shh.” He hears behind him and then his heart goes faster, too fast it feels like his head is pounding with it and a small sob wells up in his chest and throat and escapes, and he feels his face ruddy in shame as he can’t shut himself the fuck up.

Arthur slides his hands down Eames’ arms slowly, soothingly, and Eames can’t hear him above the roaring in his ears and the biting red-blood sooty words he can’t seem to keep holed up in his head.

But he can feel the chest behind him as Arthur holds Eames upright and against him, and he can feel hands repetitively stroking his arms and his back, and he tries to match his breathing to the chest at his back and clamps his mouth shut but the tears won’t stop and he’s hyperventilating, albeit slightly more slowly and God. God. He’s so ashamed that he’s doing this _here. Now. And Arthur is witnessing it._

Eames’ breathing isn’t slowing down any more and suddenly there’s a firm palm sliding against his chest, right above his heart, and he feels Arthur’s breath on his neck, and he would have loved this in any other situation—Jesus would he ever, but here and now, like this? He can’t open his eyes.

Arthur is whispering in his ear, and Eames catches snatches of words; elusive and reassuring. Eames knows he’s fucked, he’s known for ages that he’s fucked when it comes to Arthur, but this? This is too much, and he doesn’t even know too much of _what._

“Breathe. Just breathe with me Eames. Can you feel me breathing, Eames? Just stay with me, and breathe…”

Eames listens and matches his breaths to Arthur’s. Time is eaten up by focusing stuttering breaths and fighting back the dizzy lung-strangling, long stretches of it, embarrassment eking out of him, and he feels his body slowly unclenching; his head doesn’t feel like it’s filled with jam anymore, but it’s still buzzing softly and he brings up a hand to wipe his eyes, and he leans back against Arthur, just breathing.

“That’s it Eames. That’s it. Just breathe with me. You’ve got it, you’ve got it.” Arthur is stroking his hand lightly above Eames’ heart, and taking big solid deep breaths, holding them at the top, and then releasing them steadily; Eames can't tell where he ends and Arthur begins, breathing with him, joining him, connected.

They stand like that. Breathing together for years, time slowed to thick syrup, Eames body flush with oxygen; Arthur whispering in Eames’ ear about breathing, and then about the building they’ve been working on, and then about how beautiful and inspired and intricate and wonderful Eames’ little doodles were, and Eames almost relapses into another attack but Arthur shushes and soothes and keeps talking about the party, and how Eames was the only one, the _only_ one who guessed Arthur’s costume correctly, and how Arthur _knew_ he just _knew_ that Eames would know.

How when Arthur helped his father plan the building they are standing on now, he wanted the roof to be striking and comforting; a place of solitude and a place for retreat.

How he’d followed Eames up here to thank him about his comment about the glasses, and he’s not even sure why he wanted to thank Eames, but he just. Did.

How Eames is the best secretary Arthur has ever had, and he knows he is a difficult boss; he knows he can be ridiculous and fussy, but he just wants respect. He just wants people to not think of him as ‘that kid who inherited his father’s firm’ he wants to be known as his own person. As Arthur. As Arthur. Whispers heavy confessions; he doesn't know how to be Arthur. Too scared to _be_ Arthur. 

Eames lets Arthur ramble, because he loves listening, and he loves the feeling of Arthur at his back, the feeling of Arthur’s hands on him, and he doesn’t ever want this moment on the roof, with the two of them breathing together and Arthur spilling nonsense and secrets to Eames—he never wants it to end.

But as all things do—it does.

Eames ruins everything.

The forger pulls out of Arthur’s arms, standing a little shakily, his head still fuzzy.

He turns and looks at the man who calmed him down, and braces his hands on either side of Arthur’s head, bracketing him against the wall.

Arthur looks at him, slightly flushed, eyes a dark brightness.

Eames leans in, unthinking, acting on instinct or gratitude—he’s not entirely sure.

Eames’ lips are scant breaths away from Arthur’s and,

 “What the hell are you doing?” Arthur says slowly, disdainfully, incredulously.

Eames pauses, searching. He doesn’t know how to thank, except physically. He doesn’t know how to express anything without using his tongue, his lips, his hands, his cock.

He leans in again.

Arthur ducks under his arm, and steps away from Eames’ leaning bulk.

“Eames. What are you doing?” It’s soft, but firm.

Eames stands, looking at Arthur, blinking.

“Thanking you?” It isn’t meant to be a question, why the hell did he phrase it as a question. “Isn’t that what you want?” He continues.

The look Arthur gives him is even more embarrassing than having a panic attack in front of him was.

Arthur’s eyes are filled with pity. Eames fucking hates pity.

“Oh, Mister Eames,” Arthur starts, his voice filled with regret and something else Eames can’t identify. Probably something fucked up like sympathy. Or even worse, compassion.

Eames runs before Finch has a chance to finish speaking.

X

Eames thinks maybe things will be different at work because of Halloween, maybe Finch will treat him a little better, maybe Finch will be kinder to him after that whole strange confession thing on the roof.

But it doesn’t.

It gets a little worse. And it stays worse.

Eames slogs through the next few weeks, unable to sleep.

At night he dreams of that night, sometimes things end worse—with Arthur punching him, pulling a gun on him, shooting him in the temple.

Sometimes they end better—with Arthur biting him, licking his way into Eames’ mouth, of Arthur fucking himself on Eames’ cock.

Those dreams are better.

Arthur with his face flushed, half out of the fucking Superman costume, glasses still on, cock leaking, as Eames thrusts into him roughly, unrelentingly, unrepentantly.

Eames sits through the next Secretaries Anonymous meeting listening to the conversation around him, unable to say anything, and afterwards he corners Roberta.

Over coffee and bagels Eames tells her about Mal, about his stint as a forger, about the bet, about Arthur. About the not-painting thing, about the panic attacks.

“Oh dear, Eames. You’ve got it bad.” She tells him, thumbing away a crumb at the corner of her mouth.

Eames slumps further into his chair, “I know, I know.” he says miserably. She gives him advice, some numbers for people to talk to, and he drowns himself in caffeine and cream cheese.

X

On Guy Fawkes Day Arthur is standing by Eames’ desk when he gets to work.

Arthur opens his mouth to say something, and then looks over Eames, a look of disgust screwing up his face.

“Do you get dressed in the dark or something?” He asks, picking up a paper-weight on Eames’ desk and rolling it around in his fingers.

Eames gets distracted by the whole fingers, rolling.

“Sorry, what?” he asks, looking up from Finch’s long, tapered, probably skillful fingers.

“I just can’t think of a better reason for you to show up to work looking like _that.”_ Arthur spits, gesturing derisively at Eames’ whole person.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Eames questions defensively, looking down.

Eames is wearing patterned slacks; little chevrons peppering them cheerfully, and he’d paired it with a shirt he’d gotten as a souvenir in Morocco. It was one of his favourite shirts. Mal called it a monstrosity and Ariadne was constantly asked him if he’d gotten it as a white elephant gift. He wore it on particularly terrible days with pride and, he thought, charm.

The shirt was an array of egg-plant purple, mustard, and pea-soup green. It clashed and collided in a flurry of pattern and panache and the fit was fucking perfect. Stretching over his chest and shoulders a little tightly, tapering to fit snugly against his torso. He tugs a little self-consciously on his sleeves, lifting a questioning eyebrow at Finch.

Arthur sets down the paper-weight with a little too much resentful gusto, cracking the little figurine (Eames had lifted it from the desk of a particularly nasty and ridiculous Museum director—it was a collectable piece).

Eames angrily snatches the figurine and examines it closely. It could be fixed, but it was the _principle_ of the thing. Arthur getting his nasty, greasy, slimy, no-good, wonderfully exquisite gorgeous hands all over the thing.

Eames sighs, and glares balefully at Arthur.

Arthur raises his hands, “What, I’m sure you can afford another one, you’re obviously not spending your paycheck on your wardrobe.”

Eames settles the paperweight down carefully, and swivels in his chair to face Finch.

Spreading his legs a little suggestively he peers up at Arthur under his lashes,

“What, Mr. Finch, could you find so offensive about this?” he asks salaciously, running his hands over his thighs.

Arthur snorts, and rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, I have a meeting with Saito this afternoon, and if you’re going to be in the room with me, I’m not going to have you there looking like an eye-sore.”

Eames gripes and gruffs at Arthur as Finch shoves him into his coat and herds him outside into the biting November air.

Eames stops when he sees the car.

“Darling,” He breathes, and Arthur huffs exasperatedly beside him.

Eames will not deny that he runs up to the car and lovingly strokes its beautiful gleaming hood.

“Oh baby,” he whispers to it, “you are the most beautiful, gorgeous thing I have ever, ever seen.”

He hears Arthur flicking his keys into his hands impatiently behind him.

 “It’s just a car, Mr. Eames—and if you would quit salivating all over it, we might be able to get a move on. We are on a tight schedule.”

Eames leans over the car again, soothing her with his hands and sending a mean look towards Arthur,

“He doesn’t mean that, love, he doesn’t. You’re not just a car to me, you’re The Car. And I know to treat you with respect, unlike this heathen.”

Arthur is laughing at him.

Eames rounds on him and says testily, “It’s not _just_ a car, Arthur—it’s a mother fucking _Aston Martin One-77_ it goes—”

“0 to 60 in three and a half seconds, yes I know. I bought it. It’s mine. Now get in it, and please refrain from leaking sonnets all over the upholstery.”

Eames clamps his mouth shut, and with a last loving fondle, gets in.

Arthur drives like a mad man.

Seriously, no matter how rare or beautiful or sleek this deliciously gray car is; Eames will never voluntarily get into it again with Arthur at the wheel.

He fears for his life. Many times, loudly and verbosely he fears for his life at Arthur, and Arthur laughs in his face and steps on the gas a little harder. Eames bellows, and then as they turn a nastily sharp corner, he realizes that Arthur handles the car like a dream—like a fucking dream.

Eames clenches the line of his seat belt white-knuckled, and chances a look over at Arthur.

Finch’s face is rapturous and he’s laughing and completely comfortable as he eases the car around the city like it is an extension of himself, and Eames relaxes slightly and thinks it may not be so bad after all.

Driving with Arthur.

It’s the happiest Eames has ever seen his boss.

They stop outside a fancy looking tailors and Eames has flashbacks from when he was a child and shopping trips with his Au-Pair because his mother was too busy entertaining and he feels his light mood dissipating fast.

Arthur seems surprised that Eames knows his way around a waistcoat. It’s not that Eames doesn’t know how to fit himself for a suit—it’s that he doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t want to have to.

He spent far too many years being stuffed into stiff suits, and he’s happy to finally be able to dress himself how he wants to dress. He knows his outfits are kind of camp and, what he likes to think of as an ironic ‘old-money’ jab at his heritage, and he explains all this to Arthur as a far too handsy tailor takes his measurements.

“Your mother was a baroness.” Arthur doesn’t ask. He actually looks like this is something that he would expect coming from Eames, and Eames realizes that Arthur thinks he’s lying.

“It’s the truth. I'm a battle weary veteran of the dreaded Bespoke Suit, Mr. Finch—no matter how unlikely it may seem.” Eames huffs, completely un-amused. He fucking hates being fitted.  

Arthur doesn't look up from his magazine, “It’s not the first time you’ve lied to me. I looked you up Eames, I can’t find any sort of art with your name attached to it.”

Eames startles, which earns him a mutter from the tailor with a load of pins in their mouth, and he smiles at them apologetically. Never disgruntle a person with a load of pins in their mouth; you might get ‘accidentally’ jabbed.

Eames looks at Arthur. Finch had tried to find him, tried to find his work. He’d have no luck unless he was looking in the right place, and even then it’d be difficult.

The French authorities only knew him as ‘E’ and that was about it.

Grateful for a subject change (talking about his mother was not something he wanted to do with Arthur), Eames grinned,

“Going to have to try a little harder, darling. My work is very exclusively sought after.”

Arthur looks irritated at that, and goes back to flipping disinterestedly through his magazine.

They come to blows about socks.

“Why not? They’re gorgeous! Look at how these patterns flow into one another! And the colours! Arthur, allow me this.”

Eames can hear the tailors laughing behind the curtain.

Arthur holds a pair of gray and black socks in each hand, and an array of disgustingly monochromatic and honestly dull socks sit in a stack beside him.

“Eames, I will not have you sitting in on my meetings in a practical, well-tailored suit only to have you flashing glimpses of these ridiculous socks!”

“Arthur, Arthur darling, you’re beginning to sound like my mother, if you don’t let me purchase them now, I’m just going to do it later to spite you.”

Eames smiles winningly down at Arthur, standing only in shirt and boxers and clutching a handful of socks in every colour and pattern imaginable. Arthur’s eyes never quite meet his person, and he looks out the window petulantly.

“One must have a creative outlet in ones fashion choices, Arthur, and if not the socks, I will select the most atrocious ties I can find. I have a lovely one at home featuring Homer Simpson that I have been saving for a very special event.”

With a sigh of defeat, Arthur caves and concedes.

Eames gleefully gathers his socks and adds them to the pile of suits that Arthur had blessed with his seal of approval.

Arthur stands,

“Now go put on this suit, it matches the colour of your eyes.” Arthur hands him a dark gray suit with subtle olive pinstripes and a crisp olive coloured shirt.

Eames winks at Arthur as he enters the dressing room, “Noting the colour of my eyes now, Mr. Finch? First a shopping trip, and then this? Whatever will I do with myself after having garnered such attention,” and whisks the curtain shut.

Eames studies himself in the mirror. He looks damn fine. Damn. Fine. 

The suit fits him perfectly; accentuating his broadness with elegance, swaddling his stockiness with smooth lines and unhindered style. He lifts a leg of his trousers and smiles at the lavender paisley socks.

Damn. Fine.

Finch seems to think so too.

The minute Eames exits the changing room Arthur’s jaw drops a little, and he covers a gasp with a cough.

But Eames hears it. And he doesn’t even care that Arthur dragged him to this silly place and made him stand for hours being fitted into clothes he didn’t want, and wouldn’t even let Eames pay for.

Eames doesn’t care, because the way Arthur’s eyes rake over his body wrapped up in that suit, all heated desire and dark warmth that makes Eames lick his lips and his fingers tingle, is worth it.

Arthur doesn’t say anything to him until they are in the car.

He had followed Eames out the store, standing silently to the side while Eames wrote down his address for delivery. Finch had just stood there, looking at Eames, studying Eames. Eames saw Arthur’s hands clench and unclench, like he was holding back the temptation to slide his hands over Eames’ shoulders, or grab him by his lapel and do the most unspeakably dirty things to Eames in that dressing room.

Eames sort of wishes he had.

It makes Eames blissfully pleased; that he has had somewhat of an effect on his hard-hearted boss; that he might have made a dent in Arthur’s chilly exterior, might’ve softened his crisp edges, and cracked opened that hard slab of marble he keeps walled around his demeanor.

Arthur waits until they’re in the car, and then he drives. He makes the turn onto the street that Finch Architecture is on, and drives past it.

“Aren’t we--?” Eames starts, but Arthur cuts him off,

“We’ve got time. I thought it might be nice to go for a little drive and have a chat.”

Eames heart sinks.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Arthur doesn’t say anything until they are out of the city and the road opens up under the vehicle purring beneath them.

“You have a lot of tattoos.” Arthur says.

Eames doesn’t say anything.

“Kind of unprofessional, and kind of...” he coughs.

Eames doesn’t say anything.

“You look good,” Arthur glances over at Eames and then back to the road, “in that suit.”

Eames doesn’t say anything, but he smiles.

“I wanted to say that I’m sorry for that time on the roof, at the Halloween party. It wasn’t um. It was just—you’d just suffered from a panic attack and.”

Eames let’s Arthur trail off into silence. His eyes screwed shut in mortification.

They drive in silence; Arthur easily manoeuvres the car back towards the city.

“And I wanted to say that I’m sorry for always being such a—”

“Insufferable prat?” Eames interjects, finally having found his voice.

Arthur laughs, dimples standing out and the corners of his eyes crinkling up in amusement, “Yes, yes for being—as you so eloquently put it, an insufferable prat.”

They ride the rest of the way back in companionable silence.

Eames has one of his better dreams that night, but this time Arthur is slowly peeling Eames out of one of his suits, and tonguing at his heavy cock, cheeks hollowing around Eames’ hard length, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth as he sucks, and sucks, and sucks.

Eames wakes up coming.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to play a game my lovely readers? Who can spot an almost direct-quote reference to one of my favourite television shows?

**V.**

Two days later Eames finds himself at the opening night gala of a small art gallery that Arthur personally designed.

The architecture of the space is to be admired, of course, but the night doubly serves as a showcase for the final designs and portfolios of Ariadne and the other interns. 

Eames wears a deep blue suit patterned with lavender fleur de lis, paired with ochre socks that have pale pink hearts on them. He feels goddamn good, hair slicked back, beard a bit grown out. 

Walking in with a nervous and beautiful Ariadne on his arm, he spots Dom immediately, hanging out furtively near the open bar.

Ariadne hikes up her azure dress, revealing the most dangerous looking heels he’s ever seen, and runs over to a slightly pregnant Mal who's transcendent in a simple elegant red dress, and talking to Arthur.

Eames tries to make it to Dom, honestly he fucking tries, literally ignoring Mal as she calls out to him in a tone that becomes increasingly impatient to the point that Eames fears for his life if he continues on his trajectory to safety. He stares at Dom, begging the man to save him, going as far as to mouth the words, cut to the quick when the man doesn’t give him an apologetic or even conspiring look, just guffaws obnoxiously and waves his glass of alcohol at him like a dick.

Eames turns, plastering his fakest most sincere smile on his face, an 'oh I didn't even see you' look, as he approaches the trio. Arthur looks like someone has stuck a hot poker into his eye. This makes Eames feel better, and his smile a little more genuine. Serves the bastard right.

“Eames, darling, I was just telling Arthur about how I met you in Paris, and he informed me that you’re shortly joining him on a business trip there.”

Eames freezes. Mal is smiling, but only with her mouth, and smiling is too generous a term for the thing that she’s doing with her lips which is, quite frankly—baring her teeth at him.

“I—” Eames doesn’t know what to say. Arthur is looking at him uncomfortably with this constipated pained look on his face, and Eames hasn’t even had any liquor yet, and Jesus fucking Christ. Shit.

“Yes, he just finished telling me, and I was thinking that it would be a wonderful opportunity for you to visit my father.”

Eames’ palms are sweating and he looks over at Ariadne, who is inspecting her deadly shoes, and Arthur, who is pulling at the collar of his shirt, and then Mal.

Who looks pissed.

Of course Eames knew Saito’s new office was going to be built in Paris, he’d have to be _really_ obtuse not to know that, but he had absolutely no idea he would be accompanying Arthur there on a trip to the site. This is the first he's heard of it. He's pretty fucking sure this is the first he's heard of it judging by the cagey way Arthur is sipping his champagne. 

Eames glances at Arthur, who is religiously avoiding eye contact, examining his wanking cuff-links, and Eames smiles gratingly at Mal,

“I’d be happy to visit your father, Mal; and I would be—”

“Perfect.” She says coldly, and grabs Ariadne by the elbow, steering the younger lady towards a sloping corner, showering the young intern in praise.

Arthur tries to hot-tail it out of there pronto, but Eames snags him by his dark green—so dark it’s almost black—sleeve and steers him over to a drawing of a fountain.

“Fuck off,” he growls to a couple of gawking idiots standing in front of the piece, and turns on Finch.

“I am joining you in Paris?! Are you fucking kidding me? I don't remember you fucking asking me, or telling me, or what the fuck ever, that I'd be coming with? I literally. _literally, Arthur,_ bought your tickets on Friday, individual tickets. round trip- by. your. self. The fuck? You drop this on me through Mal. Through. Mal? Are you insane? Because she is, and also pregnant! Which makes the worst combination  _ever.”_

Arthur, to his credit, stutters, and has the grace to look ashamed.

“I didn’t know she’d react like that, Eames. Honestly.”

Eames shuts his eyes and scrubs a hand down his face wearily.

“I can’t even begin to explain to you the complexities of this situation.” He says and stalks off to the bar where Dom will most likely laugh at his plight, but at least be a suitable enough drinking companion.

X

Dom is the best.

He tells Dom this countless times, liquor-thick and using as many complimentary adjectives as he can think of.

Cobb makes the best jokes, and distracts Eames from Arthur, who seems to be lurking sulkily at the periphery of his vision throughout the entire evening.

“Your wife is upset that I’m apparently going to Paris.” Eames says in between an admiring comment about the soulful intensity of Dom’s baby blues, and the way his hair is always so perfect.

“I’m not going to touch that with a ten foot pole,” Cobb slips out around a jack and coke.

“I figured as much.” Eames orders another whiskey sour.

Ariadne’s work is profound. And he isn’t just saying that, he tells his prodigy, he really isn’t. It’s probably the best in the whole place, and Yusuf knows it, he tells her, and Finch sure as hell knows it, and everyone knows it, he reassures Ariadne. Everyone does.

Even though Eames is completely sauced, it’s true.

Ariadne’s work elicits gasps, and aw, and praise, and everyone sort of gathers around her pieces to stare and wonder,and the other interns look a bit peeved, but then Eames glares at them and they still look a bit peeved, but much more privately.

“You should have been Miles’ apprentice instead of me, love—the art you make is, quite frankly, truly inspired.”

Ariadne hugs him. And he doesn’t normally like being hugged, but Ariadne is constantly telling him that hugs are the best, they can turn your day around; they’re like an emotional Heimlich, and a good tight squeeze can make all his fear and anxiety come shooting out of his mouth in a big wet wad and then he can breathe again.

So he lets her hug him. But only her.

Eames heads back over to the bar, where Dom has made best friends with the bartender.

“Eames! I’ve just made best friends with the bartender!” Cobb says to him excitedly.

“Makes sense, since you’ve been planted here pretty much all evening.”

“Eames! Eames! Eames!” Ariadne bounds up to him and Cobb, “Oh, hi Dom.” Dom ignores them, chatting effusively to the bartender about the baby shower they are hosting next week, and bartender should totally come.

“Eames, Mr. Finch just hired me as a junior architect, a designer! I’m gonna get PAID TO DRAW! LEGALLY!” Ariadne shouts in his face.

She may have had a few too many glasses of wine.

Eames congratulates her, something in his chest twisting and clenching, and he pats her affectionately on the head. He’s glad for Ariadne getting bumped up from her temporary intern position and being hired by the firm, it’s a big step for her, but he finds himself half-hearted in his congratulations, and he feels moody and grouchy and silly and sad. Really fucking sad.

He leans over the bar to grab a bottle of whiskey and takes a pull at it.

Bartender is not so pleased.

Eames doesn’t give a fuck about how bartender feels, and turns to go look at some more shitty art.

Eames has been trying to ignore how fucking awful he feels all evening. He’s never had his work shown in a gallery before. Miles taught Eames everything he knows about forging when he got kicked out of art school, and Eames never knew he wanted to show anything of his until now.

He feels like shit. He feels the waves of guilt splash over him and drunkenly he tries to concentrate on the piece in front of him so that he doesn’t panic, or vomit, or—fuck-it, cry.

Eames is standing in front of a picture of a … it’s probably, but not decidedly a building, when Arthur comes to stand near him a little nervously.

Eames ignores him, and swallows down more of the bitter whiskey.

“Care to share?” Arthur asks him quietly.

Eames hands over the bottle to Finch without a word.

Arthur takes a sip and coughs a little and then hands it back to Eames.

“I was, I was wondering whether you—ahem. Whether you, I guess I was just inquiring as to if,”

“Spit it out, Finch.” Eames says, eyes never leaving the maybe building. 

He hears Arthur huff out beside him, “I was wondering if you liked the gallery.”

Eames pivots slowly towards Arthur, lips on the mouth of the bottle, tantalizingly plush and slick with alcohol.

Finch stares at his lips, unconsciously licking his own, gaze flickering darkly between Eames’ mouth and his eyes.

Eames drinks slowly, tipping his head upwards slightly to let Arthur stare unabashedly at the column of his neck as he swallows.

Eames lowers the bottle, doesn’t wipe his mouth. He lets his lips stay wet, and red, and he tells Arthur, truthfully, without looking away from the man in front of him that the gallery is fucking perfect.

X

Eames thinks he may be in heaven. Arthur is being a reasonable boss. And Eames loves it. He calls Roberta,

“Oh my god, oh my god you’ve broken him!” Roberta pterodactyl yells through the line at him.

“I haven’t! We’ve just come to some sort of. Truce,” Eames says, cradling the phone in the crook of his ear as he types out a letter to Saito’s assistant.

She sends out a mass text about it to the members of Secretaries Anonymous and Eames’ mobile goes mad all morning.

The next two weeks roll by smoothly, with Arthur being much less of a bastard, and more clear and detailed in his morning emails to Eames. Eames gets all his work done proficiently and efficiently and lazes about the office, he even finds that he has time to visit Ariadne a few times, watching the way Yusuf smiles at her instead of her work when she shows it to him, and life is kind of bearable.

Eames even brings Arthur lunch a few times when Finch gets so caught up in his project that he forgets to eat.

Finch never quite says thank you, but he smiles more often at Eames now, and they make casual small talk sort of awkwardly and.

It’s nice.

Really fucking nice, Eames thinks, and he hopes it lasts.

The Cobb’s kept pushing the date of their baby shower later and later until the last week of November, and the day before the party Eames and Ariadne go shopping for a gift.

Eames decides to make a game of it.

It’s just like old times; they con and trick their way into all of their presents, and they don’t give out a single bank note to anyone; Ariadne wins when she procures a car seat by pick-pocketing the receipt off a woman who'd just purchased one, grabbing the item from the aisle and ‘exchanging’ it for a different colour.

They laugh and race home in the pre-snow weather and Eames goes home and he draws.

He draws everything he can remember from his day with Ariadne and he doesn’t think about it, and if he does, he convinces himself that it isn’t painting, it’s just a little exercise, and he cathartically spills it all out into his sketchbook, and when he finishes he drinks some tea and looks at his work.

It’s not bad. It’s not as good as it could be, as it probably would be if he had kept up with his sketches, but it’s something. And Eames feels a little lighter; and only slightly guilty as he picks up a bamboo stylus, dips it in ink and starts to draw again.

This time he draws Arthur.

Pages and pages and pages of Arthur, and when he stops he closes the book, and puts it in a suitcase in the back of his closet and doesn’t think about it.

X

It probably wasn’t a good idea to show up early to the baby shower to help set up for the party.

Mal had been sickeningly sweet over the phone, and really—he should have known better.

Eames ducks as a half empty bottle of chardonnay smashes against the cabinet where his head had just recently been, and glances up at a raging Mal,

“You could have had the decency to tell me that you were going to Paris, you insufferable British bastard!” She yells at him, winding back with a plate in hand,

Dom quickly slides behind her, grabs the other bottles of chardonnay, and slips quietly out of the kitchen. Fucking coward.

The plate smashes to the left of his head, bursting in a shower of white-shard china.

“Mal, I had no idea until that fucking gallery opening that I was even going! I fucking swear,”

Eames turns his head just in time for a wine glass to smash into the side of his face, slicing open a deep gash against his cheekbone, another across his eyebrow, and tiny cuts along his cheek and temple.

Mal gasps,

“Merde! You silly man, you silly forger, I thought you had better reflexes than that,” Eames tries to blink the blood out of his eyes.

“Am I interrupting?” A voice at the door of the kitchen says coolly.

Arthur stands there, eyebrow raised looking between Mal, who is wringing her fingers and muttering darkly in French, and Eames who is leaning back against the counter, holding the broken base of the bottle of chardonnay and taking a sip from it.

“Eames. Don’t drink that, there could be pieces of glass in it. Mal, I’m terribly sorry to have arrived so early, but I wanted to bring you these,” Arthur steps forward and behind him comes a multitude of people bearing cupcakes.

And also a very terrified looking Dom.

Mal doesn’t speak to her husband, only gives him a look that could whither any kind of hope for leniency, and turns to the sink, wets a wash cloth with warm water and starts dabbing at the blood on Eames’ face.

“Oh, Arthur, I didn’t realize the time. Thank you so much for bringing the cupcakes,” Arthur smiles at her pleasantly, and Eames starts to feel a little light-headed.

“You invited him?” Eames asks Mal.

“I invited him.” She says quietly, “sorry Eames. I’m sorry about your beautiful face, I just was so upset because,” at this she closes her eyes, “I am so homesick. And I miss my father. And Paris, Eames. Paris.” She says fondly, opening her eyes to look at him. She kisses him on his bloody cheek and drags Dom into their bedroom.

Arthur rolls up his sleeves and walks over to Eames.

“Hm.” Finch says, taking Eames’ face in his hand and turning it to look more closely at the cuts.

“Come, come Mr. Eames let’s get you fixed up, don’t want you terrifying the guests. Where’s the bathroom?”

Eames silently leads the way, feeling off-kilter.

Arthur, resourceful as always, finds the medicine cabinet, and that’s how Eames finds himself without a shirt and with a face full of Arthur Finch slowly wiping the blood out of his eyes.

Eames is tense under Arthur’s cool precise hands, and he feels as if every nerve in his body is alert and on edge. He can feel one of Arthur’s broad, slightly calloused hands gently but firmly cradling his chin as Arthur turns Eames’ head this way and that, mopping up the blood.

“Does it hurt?” Arthur asks him softly, wiping around the cut on Eames’ cheek.

“Not really, I’ve had worse.” Eames grunts quietly.

“Have you.” It’s not a question, “Why did Mal call you a forger?”

Eames knows that Arthur knows that he's tensed up,; he relaxes purposefully and lets out his breath slowly,

“Silly little nickname.” He says. He doesn’t think Finch buys it, but Arthur doesn’t say anything; just keeps wiping at his mess of a face.

Arthur drags the cloth across his collar bones, at the sticky browning blood pooling there, and he brings his other hand up to grasp at Eames’ meaty shoulder.

Eames stops breathing.

The cloth runs underneath the forger’s clavicle, and into the vulnerable dip at the base of his throat, and he knows that if Arthur looks he will be able to see Eames’ pulse jumping and leaping beneath his skin.

Arthur grips his shoulder and the warm washcloth stained pink with Eames’ blood starts to trace the permanent lines inked over his heart.

Eames thinks it might be blood loss, but the concentrated way Arthur smooths the cloth over Eames’ chest feels sensuous and teasing.

“I’ve always wanted a tattoo.” Arthur says into the silence; his voice echoing loudly over the tiles; and Eames isn’t sure what to do with that information.

He imagines Arthur inked and marked and he thinks that he wants to draw anything and everything that Arthur would ever want permanently etched onto his skin. He wants to plan beautiful works of art and scar Arthur’s body with them. Pour himself into intricate meaningful designs—spill into Arthur’s skin how much he _wants._

Eames groans at that image. At the idea of Arthur’s perfect, pure body—open to him like the promise of an empty canvas, marred with Eames’ design.

He pretends his head hurts to make up for the groan. But he thinks he sees the corners of Finch’s lips flicker up slightly, and Arthur’s hand spasms a little over Eames’ shoulder, clenching tightly. Hotly. Possessively.

When Arthur has finished cleaning the blood, he pulls out a pair of tweezers and Eames moans.

“Not again,” And Arthur laughs a little at that, and smiles at him, and God. Those dimples.

Finch is quick, and thorough. Inspecting each wound for bits of glass. Eames hisses at the sting of disinfectant, and Arthur clasps the back of Eames’ neck; rubbing his fingers in soothing circles across the skin above Eames’ collar.

Eames carefully doesn’t think about _anything_.

He especially doesn’t think about the way Arthur’s hands are cradling his face, and the gentle way Arthur smooths antibiotic cream over jagged slices.

He doesn’t think about how he can smell Arthur, and he doesn’t know what kind of after-shave that is, but he knows he’ll be trawling the aisles for it, and if he finds it he might purchase it and do something ridiculous and foolish and first-love stupid like spray it on his pillow.

Eames doesn’t think about how he can feel the heat seeping into his jaw from Arthur’s light touch, how he can hear the rasp of Arthur’s palm and fingers against his rough chin. He doesn’t think about Arthur’s lips, or the pale pillar of his throat, or the way Arthur’s eyelashes are dark and.

He just doesn’t. Think about any of that.

Instead he sits and counts his own breaths, and looks and looks and looks at Arthur. Carefully not thinking.

When Arthur has liberally applied antibiotic to each cut, he runs a finger over each of them methodically, almost mesmerized, lingering over the jagged line running through Eames’ right eyebrow.

“Take care of these, Mr. Eames, you don’t want them to scar.” He whispers, his voice catching slightly. Arthur’s eyes are hot and vibrant and deliciously full of something that Eames is suspecting looks a lot like affection with a liberal dose of fondness, or maybe hope? He was just hit in the face with a wine glass. He can’t read emotions right now.

Eames wants to kiss Arthur. He wants to kiss him very badly indeed, so instead he nods his head says a brusque “thanks” and leaves Arthur standing in front of the bathroom mirror.

X

Eames finds a shirt that almost fits him in Dom’s room and wanders out into the yard.

“We don’t want to know whether or not it’s a boy or a girl. We like the mystery. The intrigue.” Mal is a wonderful hostess, and she brushes Eames’ arm apologetically as he comes to stand next to her and Dom talking to several women.

“It’s fucking killing me not knowing if they’re a boy or a girl. Either way I’m buying them a ton of dinosaur shit.” Dom whispers to him, taking a sip of a very, very full glass of chardonnay.

“We’re thinking Phillipa if it’s a girl, and,” Eames doesn’t hear the rest as Dom goofily slurs in his ear, “Phil. My daughter called Phil."

Eames and Ariadne have a wonderful time presenting their respective gifts to Dom and Mal. Eames furtively slips Dom a hand made coupon to an “epic bro bar crawl” and he thinks Dom tears up a little at that.

Arthur is well-mannered and polite, and fucking beautiful and gorgeous and Eames cannot be blamed that he kisses him in the second floor bathroom after following him up there towards the end of the party.

It isn’t much of a kiss, as far as kisses go; it’s quick and Eames just picks the lock on the bathroom door, and opens it when he hears Arthur washing his hands; steps in, grabs a very confused and indignant looking Arthur, and kisses him.

Eames nips and licks at Arthur’s mouth, the man in front of him not responding, and when he finishes, he steps back and admires the way Arthur’s lips are bee-stung and red and wet with Eames’ spit, and he turns and runs down the stairs, and leaves the party.

X

That night, nearing 2AM Arthur calls him.

Eames almost doesn’t pick up, but he does because he’s been wallowing, nearly drowning in self pity because Arthur didn’t kiss him back, and he can’t sleep anyway so. Why not.

“Hello Arthur.” He says, voice thick.

“Hello Mr. Eames. I just wanted to say that I’m not gay.”

The silence between them on the line is heavy, and Eames can feel himself flushing hot and stupid.

“Or. I guess. That is to say, that I _can't_ be gay. At this time. I can’t afford to be, as I hope you can understand, because I hold a very high position in a very successful firm, and the board is full of old school traditionalists, and with my father having only recently passed and my person and professionalism being assessed and examined at every turn, I have decided to keep my personal life personal. The fact of the matter is, you're my secretary, and I’m sorry if I led you on, but I believe in openness and honesty,” Eames snorts, which earns him a beat of silence, “And I thank you for the kiss, Mr. Eames it was very. Um...”

Eames doesn’t want to hear what it was, or more likely wasn’t, and so he cuts Arthur off. Because Eames’ everything kind of hurts, and he doesn’t want to know why, he doesn’t want to admit why, or examine why, but he knows that he is indignant, and more than a little pissed off, because Arthur is, he's, not making sense, and then the anger turns to sadness and god, his heart fucking aches for Arthur. 

And he gets it. Even though he hopes for Arthur, longs for him to be able to be himself, he can understand it, because he's been there. In the strangling confining fear. 

 And then he's sad for himself.

Because, and he knows this is foolish wishful _selfish_  thinking, but he thinks that if he was  _worth_ _it_ to Arthur, if he was enough for him, then Arthur would chance it, would want to declare it, and. 

He gets it. 

Because of course Arthur doesn’t want him the way Eames wants Arthur.

That would be stupid of Arthur, because Eames is nothing special; just a big man in a suit, a waste of talent. A waste.

_Selfish. Undeserving._

“No harm done, Mr. Finch. Don’t mention it again. Good night.” Eames says, and hangs up.

Half an hour later he gets a text.

**It was a very lovely kiss.**

Eames over-analyzes those six words for forty-five minutes, types out at least ten different responses, freaks out a little, and then replies:

**It was. I’ve been wanting to do it for ages.**

And then he turns his phone off because he doesn’t want to know if Arthur will reply or what he will say if he does, and so he rolls over and goes to sleep.

In the morning when Eames turns on his phone he realizes he didn’t have to worry, because Arthur didn’t say anything.

X

They don’t discuss the kiss, or the phone call, or anything outside the weather and work.

They barely see each other the next week, being far too busy getting everybody ready for the business trip to Paris, and Eames rushes around and feels hectic and like he’s going a little mad. It's not ideal, but it's far better than being bored. 

He packs a suitcase in the back of his closet in a rush and then all of a sudden he realizes that he’s going to be on a plane with Finch in fifteen hours for an eight hour flight.

And then he realizes that he needs to forge a fucking passport in fifteen hours because he can’t use any of his current aliases in case they’ve been flagged, and fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He has a lot to do.

He definitely doesn’t think about the fact that he’s about to spend a week in Paris with Arthur Finch and their rooms are adjoining.

Fuck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**VI.**

Arthur shows up at the airport in a three piece suit, fuck him to hell very kindly, thank you, and Eames arrives far more practically in dark jeans, a pale blue-gray worn out hoodie, and three-day stubble.

Eames’ passport is a brilliant bit of forgery, and he sails through security as an Edward Thomas. He graciously (read chivalrously) retrieves their boarding passes from the self-check in box because he doesn’t want Arthur to see the false name. “Ed” hands Arthur his ticket without a word and then goes to find a coffee.

The plane ride is boring.

Magnificently dull, astronomically tedious, lackluster, monotonous.

The minute they get on the plane, Arthur pops a couple pills and passes out in the spacious first class seat next to him.

**Hour One**

Eames plays with a bit of napkin; twisting and turning its shred-white body until it looks sort of not quite like a swan.

Arthur snores softly next to him.

A broad shouldered flight attendant asks him if he wants a drink. Eames is bored so he orders a gin&tonic with a wink and a saucy smile hoping the attendant will get the hint and bring over something bigger than those tiny in-flight portions.

He’s able to knock back the glass in one smooth swallow.

**Hour Two**

Eames orders four more gin&tonics.

And he doesn’t stare at Arthur sleeping next to him.

He doesn’t.

**Hours Three & Four**

Eames wakes Arthur up for “Dinner” even though they’ll be arriving around 9:00 in the morning Paris time, so—

Whatever.

He doesn’t want Finch to be angry with him if he’s hungry.

Or at least that’s what Eames tells himself.

Arthur blinks bleary eyes wide and soft for a brief moment before they shutter and narrow.

“The fuck are you waking me up for Mister Eames. Unless my body equilibrium is failing me, we are still cruising at maximum altitude and have not yet reached our destination. Explain.”

Eames is staring at Arthur’s sleep-mussed hair, imperfectly beautifully tousled, and the dishevelment has him side-tracked a little. He can’t be blamed. _Honestly._

Arthur’s eyes narrow even further-- mere angry molten slits aimed at Eames-- and Finch reaches up and flattens his hair smooth.

Eames turns and leans back into the aisle; a flight attendant dolling out dishes two rows away.

“Dinner,” the forger says brusquely, and his hands play with emptiness; and then grip the arm rest tightly.

Arthur looks down at his white knuckles and laughs.

Roiling dark, low chuckles and he barbs meanly, “Are you scared of flying Mister Eames?”

Eames says nothing, his lips pressed into a thin pale line.

The attendant is petite and sharp cheekbones and pretty-brunette. Eames orders the vegetarian and then waits expectantly, his head still turned towards the attendant, ignoring Arthur.

The young woman looks back and forth between Arthur and Eames, and then, sighing heavily, she addresses Eames, “And for your partner?”

Eames hears a sputtering choking sound behind him and smirks wolfishly.

“He’ll have the fish, thanks love.”

**Hour Five**

Arthur goes back to sleep after he pushes a bit of the tasteless meal around in front of him.

Eames makes friends with the little girl across the aisle on the flight with her Grandmère.

She tells Eames about how Universal Studios was a trillion times better than Disney World and how the Hulk ride was the best ride and she went on it _five times,_ and he lets her titter on in child-slurred French and she shares her crayons and he grabs one of those flimsy puke-bags and hyperventilates a little and then pretends to be asleep.

**Hour Six**

Eames flirts outrageously with the first flight attendant in a bid for more alcohol. His ploy works.

Eames likes presents, so he lets his gaze linger suggestively on the attendant’s lips when he addresses him, and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, an un-focusing of the eyes, and a quick swipe of tongue licking lips. 

Arthur is still asleep so Eames pats the arm rest of his chair invitingly and the attendant perches there, chatty with nervous energy.

Eames is lightly stroking the attendants arm with rough broad fingers, playing with the pin on his vest, and sucking on his own bottom lip.

Arthur’s head falls on his shoulder with a slight bump, and Eames freezes, feeling a brush of dark loose hair tickle the side of his neck. Warm breath ghosts over his exposed clavicle and the dip in his throat, and he gently pushes the attendant off of the arm of his chair and leans back slowly, eyes apologetic, sheepish.

“Um. I’ll just get you another drink then,” the blonde man says, annoyed but kind, brushing Eames shoulder with his fingers.

Eames says nothing.

**Hour Seven**

Eames doesn’t want to, but he has to go to the toilet.

All that liquor sloshing away and fucking up his insides and his mind and Jesus, he doesn’t want to move.

Finch smells fantastic; the sweet spice of expensive cologne, clean and fresh like marble.

Eames knows his fingers are tattooing the beat of Arthur’s breath against his skin on the arm of his chair, and his shoulder has fallen asleep; but he doesn’t fucking care because his heart is a fast-racing rushing rhythm pounding in blood against the back of his eyes and the insides of his ears, and all he can think with every in and out take of breath is _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._

Fuck he has to piss... but he doesn’t want to move.

He doesn’t want this to end; this unconscious vulnerability and one sided tender moment. Eames knows it’s the most he’s ever going to get from Arthur, and he desperately tries to hold on to it, palms sweaty and slippery, but he can’t.

So he exhales, stuttering and faltering, and with a broad hand gently lifts Arthur’s head off of his shoulder, softly pushing him to the side and leaning over his sleep-lax body to put a pillow against the shut plane window and place Arthur against it.

He stands, wiping his sweating palms on the rough drag of his jeans and, grabbing the vomit-bag crinkling tight, he goes to the bathroom.

Eames groans as he flushes the toilet, and glares at his rough reflection. He stares and stares torturously reliving the last forty minutes over and over in his mind until he snatches up the discarded paper bag to the left of the sink and breathes into it fast and hot.

He _can’t_ do this, this fucking—whatever the hell it is. This trip. The agonizing proximity, the flush of embarrassment Eames feels whenever he sees Arthur watching him. Whenever Eames let’s himself remember that kiss.

Which is constantly beating and berating; nudging at the back of his mind. Eames feels sick. He feels his confident persona slipping even further and there’s nothing stopping him from his quick descent down and down and down.

A sharp rap echoes through the tiny compartment and Eames slouches, then straightens. With a flick, he unlocks and opens the door.

X

Eames doesn’t fuck the flight attendant.

He doesn’t.

He has the opportunity to—more than one, considering all the alcohol and attention, but he doesn’t.

Even when he opens the bathroom door to an expanse of tightly buttoned-in tanned chest, sandy swoop of apple-pie & cornbread man, the hooded gaze of pupil-swallowed eyes edged with a ring of blue.

Eames doesn’t fuck the flight attendant even when said attendant is pushing him backwards into the compartment and locking them in with a click.

Eames flicks his eyes down, ‘Bruce’, reads the plated name tag, and the forger leans back, nearly suffocating from the close proximity, and Bruce’s hands reaching and grabbing everything in sight.

Eames is pushed up against the small counter, and feels the heavy ridge of Bruce’s cock thrust against his hip.

Sharp teeth stinging-nip at Eames’ lips, and that whips the forger into gear.

He roughly spins them, twisting Bruce’s right arm around his back, pushing Bruce into the unforgiving edge of the counter. He shoves the attendant’s head into the mirror in front of them, and Bruce’s hot wet wheezing fogs up the glass. Eames brutally thrusts his thigh in-between Bruce’s spread legs making the man in front of him keen and whimper.

“Is this what you want?” Eames growls into Bruce’s ear, licking up the outer shell of it and feeling the man underneath him shiver and shake with arousal.

Bruce’s eyes in the mirror are dark pits of pooling black and his mouth hangs open obscenely, saliva dripping from the corner, his tongue hanging out like an over-heated dog.

The flight attendant pants and moans and groans low, and begs and pleads for Eames to fuck him, but Eames just stares at the man in the mirror; at his open expression of want and desire and supplication making Eames feel ill, defeated, twisted and cold.

Eames let’s go of Bruce’s head, and reaches his arm around to unbutton and unzip, shoves his hands into the exposed briefs.

Bruce’s entire face is lax in pleasure and tense in anticipation, sweat plasters blonde hair to his forehead. Eames grins into Bruce’s eyes through the mirror and Bruce tries to pump his hard-on into Eames' hand, and grinds his ass back onto Eames' thigh. 

“You want me to push my spit-slicked fat cock into you? Is that what you want? You want this? To be fucked by a stranger?”

Eames pulls his hand out and shoves back, releasing the man underneath him.

“I'm an asshole,” he turns to the door, “You deserve better, Bruce.”

Eames opens the door to Arthur.

**Hour Eight**

Eames doesn’t fuck the flight attendant.

But Arthur thinks he does.

Finch just stands there, his fists clenching and unclenching, sleep slowly seeping out of his face.

Eames says nothing.

Arthur stares, fury dominating any other potential emotion, and Eames closes his eyes when he hears the snick of a zipper being pulled up echo from the silence behind them.

Bruce slips around the pair, and Eames tries to follow him, but for the second time in fifteen minutes, finds himself being shoved backwards into the cramped toilet and the lock flicking to ‘Occupied’.

Finch turns, regarding Eames with something that looks a hell of a lot like disappointment, and Eames' stomach turns and clenches tight when he thinks he sees pity alongside it, and perhaps resentment.

“You can’t even keep it in your pants for the duration of the flight,” it isn’t a question, icily frosting its way out of Arthur’s mouth and stabbing Eames in the gut, wrenching-- and the forger is so tired, he sinks sluggishly onto the toilet seat.

“I will say this once Mister Eames, I will _not_ repeat myself. This is a business trip, and I expect you to behave accordingly. I had thought I wouldn’t have to spell this out for you, but clearly,” Arthur pauses when he sees the mirror slick with Bruce’s saliva, “I overestimated your ability to handle yourself like a professional.” This last is said so politely and with such unabashed disdain that Eames squeezes his eyes shut even tighter and doesn’t breathe.

“Get out.”

Eames leaves.

Arthur returns to his seat shortly thereafter, and Eames cannot look him in the face.

Eames feels fear, self-pity, self-defeat, red shame strangling like a fog overtake him and he ignores Arthur’s wicked-indulgent laughter beside him as he hyperventilates and then ralphs into the crinkled well-used paper bag, self-hatred and malice welling up in his eyes but not spilling out, splintering.

The overhead speaker fuzzes on and the Pilot drones about seatbelts and the time and weather in Paris and Eames hears nothing, hatred buzzing in his ears.

XX

They reach the hotel around ten o’clock and Eames releases a breath he had been unconsciously holding since they first set foot on Parisian soil.

His alias had worked, and he hadn’t been arrested.

Eames feels a shiver of relief, and then the cold sweat of anxiety as he sweeps into the grandeur of their hotel.

He hadn’t been made in Paris; the authorities didn’t know what he looked like, but they knew his signature, they knew Mal, and they knew what he was capable of, and they were still looking.

They knew enough.

He lets the fear trickle into his system and seize into his heart and allows the flight-response overcome him and his step falters.

Survival instincts kick in though, when he looks up and sees Arthur waiting impatiently for him at the front desk.

The concierge smiles sickeningly at him.

Arthur hasn’t looked at, or spoken to him since the airport when he’d impatiently ordered Eames to hail a goddamn taxi already since he spoke French so fucking well.

Eames takes his sweet time and strolls over to his boss, who is shooting a death-ray glare at the concierge, the prim man behind the desk repressing an eye-roll, and looking at Eames sympathetically.

No, apologetically.

“This man,” Arthur waves, outraged, as soon as Eames saunters up to the desk, “tells me that our rooms are adjoining.” Eames nods, silently, waiting.

Arthur taps his fingers against the smooth, cold counter.

The quiet stretches while Eames stares mesmerized at the drumming digits.

“Oui monsieur, as you have requested the rooms are connected by a toilet.” Arthur turns triumphantly to Eames, pointing at the poised concierge,

“A bathroom, Eames! Do you see our dilemma, this _imbecile,”_ The French man sniffs indignantly, “has us in two rooms connected by a _bathroom.”_

Eames blinks.

“What?”

Arthur growls low and grabs Eames by the front of his hoodie, stalking over to the protective cover of a potted plant.

The concierge sniffs again, more poshly this time, and goes back to typing on his tablet.

“You wanted adjoining rooms Mr. Finch, I booked them, what’s the problem?” Eames grunts before Arthur can say anything.

Arthur splutters, “Adjoining, yes; but with separate facilities--I will not be sharing a bathroom with you,” he hisses lowly, disgust wrenching his features.

Eames nods acquiescently, and goes over to speak to the concierge.

They banter in easy flowing French and Eames watches Arthur fidgeting near the potted plant growing more agitated and frustrated at the length of the conversation.

Eames figured out within the first two minutes that there was nothing to be done about the rooms, and the concierge wasn’t really that sorry about the mix-up, but Eames prolongs the conversation, asking insignificant nonsense-queries until Arthur looks fit to explode.

Eames makes the concierge laugh; and Finch stalks over, a cloud of anger and weariness following him overhead.

Eames quickly takes the proffered room cards from the concierge, and spins Arthur towards the elevators, his hand burning hot where his grip remains unwavering on Finch’s elbow until the lift’s doors close behind them.

“Well?” Arthur whines like a petulant child, ripping his arm out of Eames’ hand.

“Well nothing, Mr. Finch. These rooms were hard to come by in the first place, and since you _insisted_ I get us a booking here, ‘if you try to put us up in any other hotel Mr. Eames don’t bother coming in tomorrow’,” Eames imitates Arthur’s clipped-diction voice perfectly and Finch flinches, “this is it, these were the last adjoining rooms available, unless,” Eames’ voice turns invitingly low and sultry-thick, “you’d rather we just stay in the honeymoon suite?”

Arthur’s face is red and he stands gaping stupidly like a fish while the lift doors open, and Eames has to drag him out before the doors close on him.

“Come along darling, I’ll let you have the first go in the shower.”Eames says at the first door.

Indignant, Arthur holds out his hand expectantly for his key card, and rolling his eyes Eames hands it to him, Arthur enters his room without a look back.

Eames walks farther down to his own room, swipes the key card, takes the few steps to the bed, and falls onto his face into the plushy down.

X

Eames wakes up to Billie Holiday being absolutely butchered.

“You’ll forbid the tears to slip, you’ll behave, bite your lip,” Eames groans and rolls over,

“And say ‘Hello my darling’, if we should meet again,” Eames can’t. He just can’t.

It doesn’t matter that Arthur cannot sing to save his life; the lyrics are too coincidental, too tempting, ironic? Eames doesn’t know, and the soft sounds of the shower pattering on tile makes it all the more _too much._

Eames pushes himself out of the bed and slip-quiet tip-toes over to the door to their adjoining bathroom. He wonders absently if Arthur remembered to lock this side.

He hadn’t. Not that it would have really mattered if he had; Eames can pick a lock faster than anyone he knows besides Mal.

Eames silently glides the door handle open without a sound, and warm steam plumes out into his face through the tiny sliver.

The singing inside has devolved into an absent hum. 

Lowering himself to the plush carpet, Eames leans his head against the door frame and blinks into the foggy white-tiled room cracked open in front of him.

He can barely make out Arthur’s blurred and distorted form through the condensation and buttered-beveled glass of the shower door, but he can make out the man’s shape and that is enough.

Eames stifles a moan, trapping his bottom lip between sharp teeth. 

He knows he shouldn’t do this, it’s a perverse invasion of privacy, he knows he’s disgusting, weak; he can’t move.

Eames doesn’t dare close his eyes, as Arthur continues humming softly.

Eames breathes raggedly as the mist clears slightly, probably dissipating through the crack that he is peering through, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care, all he knows is that he can vaguely see the glorious lithe gracefulness of Arthur running his hands through his hair, and then down his chest. 

The forger closes his eyes then, out of guilt, hands shaking, he carefully adjusts himself through his jeans. 

His eyes snap open on a groan—thinking it’s his own, he ducks silently to the side and holds his breath, mortified, waiting; but then he hears it again, this time slightly muffled and drawn out underneath the spray of the shower.

_Fuck._

He slams his eyes back to the split between the door and the frame so fast he almost brains himself.

And then he nearly has an aneurysm right there on the spot because Arthur is leaned against the glass, and his arse cheeks are pressed against the slicked door and Eames’ cock is leaking profusely all over the inside of his boxers, and then his smearing across his wrist as he gets a hand on his dick.

Arthur’s hips are thrusting, and his right elbow keeps bumping into the glass making it all too obviously clear what he’s doing.

Eames mimics his actions, his pace, his hand sliding wet and fast up and around his cock-head, thumbing at the slit.

Arthur is panting, or at least Eames thinks he is; he can barely hear anything over the sound of the shower, and the pounding in his head, and his own struggle to control himself. He can’t tell if he’s disappointed or not that he can’t see Arthur’s dick, can only see the suggestion of what’s going on as Arthur speeds up, his elbow tap tap taping on the glass.

Eames looses it when he sees Arthur tip his head up to the spray, ass dimples and all, and it's all too much, and sudden and Eames

is coming with a small grunt, teeth driving into his lip.

Ropes of thick white cum spurt hot and heavy over Eames’ hoodie and he rides it out slow and furious, eyes never leaving the scene in the shower.

His watches, breath calming from fevered, as Arthur’s back bows.

Eames wishes the shower were off so he could hear the noises Arthur is making. Eames barely makes out a high moan, ending on a “fuck, fuck.” And he closes his eyes, swallowing, throat dry.

Eames quietly shuts the door, pulls his messed clothes off, throws them into a hamper in the closet, and burrows back into the cushion-calm-retreat blanketed safety of the un-judging bed.

He doesn’t think about it.

He doesn’t.

X

Eames wakes up the second time to knocking on the bathroom door.

He opens his eyes tiredly, and then shuts them again tightly when the raps get sharper.

He can’t remember if he locked it on this side. He doesn’t think he did.

Eames pretends to be asleep when he hears the door crack open with a jolt.

“Mister Eames.”

Eames snores obnoxiously in reply. He almost hears Finch’s eye roll.

“Get up Mister Eames, we have an appointment with Saito at 3:00 and it is now,” Arthur pauses and Eames knows he’s checking his ridiculously expensive watch, “1:50. Get in the shower and wash that flight stench off of you and be ready to go at 2:30.”

Eames snores again.

He expects Arthur to huff exasperatedly and privilege him with a rant about punctuality.

He isn’t expecting Arthur to grab him by the shoulder and rip back the blankets covering him.

“Get _up,_ Eames, I won’t ask you agai—”

Shit.

Shit wank christ fucking bollocksy _shit._

The stillness is thick and heavy cocooning them and Eames doesn’t curl up protectively into the foetal position like he wants to.

He opens his eyes.

Arthur is staring at him, eyes roaming hungrily, heated and sparking and melting and alive.

Eames doesn’t move.

Slowly Arthur’s gaze traces the ridges in his stomach, lingering on what they find lower, and Eames can feel the flush slinking out and making his skin burn.

Arthur’s hand reaches out and touches a bit of ink curling around his left clavicle and then flinching, he pulls back his hand like Eames’ skin has scalded him.

Eames can still feel the heat curling into his skin from that simple branding touch.

Arthur turns,

“Be ready at 2:30.” He chokes out, the door to the bathroom slamming behind him.

Eames breathes out slowly into the suffocating silence, willing his body to move.

X

Eames hates Saito’s PA.

His name is Nash, but he pronounces it like a fucking title and goddamn it Eames hates him so much.

They are at the site where Saito’s museum is going to be built, and Eames tilts his face into the cold Paris air and inhales.

Nash is bragging at his side, Saito and Arthur across the expanse; Eames can see Arthur’s hands gesticulating articulately.

Nash is such a fucking prig.

And Arthur likes him.

When they had met up at the site, Saito had introduced his personal assistant to Arthur, and Finch had smiled warmly at him and taken his proffered hand, and laughed at the stupidest goddamn joke Eames had ever heard. Eames had seen Nash’s eyes go hot and silky with lust and just.

Fuck.

Eames had seen the interest glinting in Arthur’s eyes, and the way Finch’s hands had lingered in Nash’s hold as he appraised Saito’s PA.

It doesn’t help matters that Nash is apparently a researching savant, because Eames stops inhaling gusts of air like a fucking psycho, and Nash is turning to him, smiling knowingly. Eames feels dread sinking into his stomach like lead.

“Saito had me dig a little into Arthur, and of course I had to do a little digging into your background as well. Imagine my surprise when I could find absolutely nothing on you Mr. Eames.”

Eames smiles faintly and says nothing.

“Luckily I have many, ahem, back-alley contacts at my disposal, and although I don’t know exactly _who_ you are Mr. Eames, I _do_ know that you’re somehow connected with some underground and, shall we say, illegal black-market art dealing.”

“It’s just Eames.”

“What?” Nash looks caught off balance and this makes Eames’ smirk slant into smug.

“My name, it’s just Eames. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll fuck off and tell your employer that I’m a paragon of virtue.” Eames gets in closer, pulling Nash in by the scruff of his hair at the nape of his neck, “If I hear you’ve even breathed a word about this to Arthur then,” Eames licks his lips bloodthirstily, “I’m going to take great pleasure in ripping your tongue out and making you swallow it.”

Nash gulps noisily in front of him, turning red at the threat and Eames can’t help it; he has to drill his point in somehow, and he’s sick of this. Sick of everything, of the flight, of the pain twisting in his chest at just being in Paris, angry at the desire he saw flicker in Arthur’s eyes when he shook Nash’s hand, that he drives his fist into Nash’s face, hand coming away dripping with brown-red blood spluttering from Nash’s nostrils.

It was worth it.

Even for the screaming Arthur in his face and the disgruntled disgust looming in Saito’s face behind him as Nash clutches at his streaming nose.

Arthur yells until he is hoarse and Eames just stands there patiently, waiting for it to be finished.

When Finch is done, Eames walks away.

X

Eames wanders his beloved city, rediscovering her hidden hide-aways and soaking in her unforgiving beauty.

He twists and turns and finds himself outside a delightful little antique boutique and strolls inside.

He doesn’t mean to buy them.

But he can’t help it.

They are so intrinsically Arthur that he can’t help himself he has to have them.

Delicate perfectly made cufflinks in the shape of dice, simple and elegant.

The sales lady wraps them up and he puts the small black box into his pocket. He’s not one for buying gifts. But he feels slightly (only slightly) bad about punching Nash, and he knows that he just risked Arthur losing this building, this museum that he’s been obsessing and poring and loving over for weeks, so—

He supposes it’s a bit of an apology.

The best one he can make.

He doesn’t go back to the hotel until nine that night, jet-lag wearily dragging him trudging to his door.  

Arthur is sitting on his bed expectantly.

“You nearly lost me that account,” he says without infliction.

Fuck. Monotonous Arthur is _not good._

The silence grows thick between them, Arthur huffs, chuckles a little, almost fondly-forgiving, so.

Eames shoves his hand into his pockets and then proffers the box at Arthur not looking him in the eye.

“I got you something,” he says brusquely.

There is a long pause before Eames feels Arthur take the offering from his blunt fingers.

“Interesting,” he hears Arthur murmur and Eames looks up and into a bright dazzling smile; hard to look at and irresistible.

“Lovely,” Arthur says.

And Eames wonders when he turned into this pathetic vulnerable man. When his rough tough forger exterior had split open and spilled out this soft, wretched, pitiable man that survived on private smiles, and the brush of hair against his neck, and Arthur looking at him like he’s an intriguing bit of blueprint that he wants to explore.

He feels as though his wildness has been tamed and his reckless abandon controlled and he hates it so much he can’t handle it, so he closes his eyes and pushes everything back and in and down and winds this version of himself so tightly up in wire, and when he opens his eyes again he’s Eames.

He’s always felt guilt and strangling-shame so deeply that he supposes it turned him chaotic and destructive and he remembers how he taught himself to not care about anything, not care about his actions, or people.

That’s how he got into this in the first place.

Caring. Trusting. Complacent pride.

Fucking up Mal had fucked him up.

And now Arthur was ruining him even more. Bending and breaking his care-free hectic frenzy into a mess of _feelings._ Of caring what Arthur thought of him, of being ashamed of that impulsive kiss.

Eames _is_ impulsivity and he isn’t used to responding to rejection so uselessly. Normally he’d get right back up, brush himself off, and fuck the next happily willing consenting adult that came along.

But he can’t with Arthur.

He just can’t.

And it’s wearing him down.

He is sick and tired of wallowing. _It’s because you want him so much it terrifies you,_ he crushes the thought.

Fuck that.

“Yeah well, they’ll look nice on those talented wrists of yours, darling,” Eames drawls and lazily saunters into Arthur’s personal space.

He begins humming Billie Holiday and Arthur’s cheeks smear with pink; Eames brushes them with a thumb and leans in close to Finch’s ear, breath wet-warm and inviting,

“You’ll behave, bite your lip—” Eames whispers.

Arthur’s breathing is gaining speed and Eames can feel it scorching across his neck,

“Hello, my Darling,” he says and flicks his tongue out to lick the lobe of Arthur’s ear.

Arthur groans in the back of his throat and Eames continues humming the song while tonguing saliva-slick trails over the shell of Arthur’s ear.

Arthur cries out softly as Eames nips sharply and then moans as Eames soothes over the spot with his rough-wet tongue.

“I know you want me Arthur,” Eames purrs between sucks, “I know you want me to rim your cherry hole, want me laid out, above you, under you; you want me dripping, disheveled, undone and pliant. You want to feel my mouth on you marking you as _mine.”_ Eames growls and bites Arthur where his ear meets his neck and then Eames is being shoved backwards and his legs trip over themselves and he’s sprawling on the floor.

Arthur stands over him, panting, gorgeous and flushed with arousal.

“I can do better.” Arthur breathes out, voice shaking, thick and heavy.

The words sink into Eames, and he knows he’s lost it.

Fucking lost it.

He doesn’t hear when Arthur leaves.

He’s too busy realizing how broken he is when it comes to Arthur.

Arthur, who is precision and perfection and orderly fucking meticulousness and exactitude has wrecked him into a recklessness he thought he wanted.

No, _needed_.

Eames grabs his shit and hotwires some expensive shiny metallic job from the hotel garage and peels into the night.

X

Eames gets fucked up at the club.

He doesn’t know what the pill was that that cool ass tattoo chick gave him, but it’s making him feel fucking amazing and thrill-good all over and he knows he shouldn’t, but he drinks so much he doesn’t know where he is, or who he is, all he knows is _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._

He purposefully starts a fight with five guys and barely makes an effort, letting them batter him, and he gets kicked out of the place, his face a bloody mess and cuts and mottled bruises all over his hands and he feels fucking great.

Somehow he makes it back to his room and passes out.

Eames wakes up around five a.m., body confused over the time change, and as exhausted and sore as he is and feels he cannot will himself back to sleep.

Still slightly drunk, but not drunk enough, he opens up the mini fridge humming contentedly next to the massive television, and grabs everything alcoholic out of it.

He opens his laptop and boots it up, calculating the time difference between Paris and Chicago.

Dom answers on the third ring.

“Alcohol Skype date?” Eames asks as soon as he sees Cobb’s pixilated face grimacing at him from the screen.

Dom’s eyes light up, and he whispers,

“Hold on, let me go to the basement.”

Skype dates with Cobb are the best.

Drinking Skype dates are even better.

They sing Alicia Keys at each other and they play Skype games and get plastered.

Dom knows not to ask why Eames called, can see it in the pulpy blood-crusted mess that is his face, and his haphazard almost-grin.

The last half hour of the call they spend in companionable silence, broken only by the sloshing swig of a bottle, or a bottle top being twisted off with a hiss.

Eames is almost asleep when he hears Cobb sloppy-slurring whisper,

“She doesn’t resent you Eames. She doesn’t hate you. Don’t beat yourself up over this, man. I miss you. Fuck, I miss the way you used to be.”

Eames quietly rolls over and finds his mouse, dragging it slowly over to the red hang-up button. Before he clicks it he hears,

“He wants you too, you know Eames, I know he doe—”

Eames hangs up.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends, my anxiety has gotten slightly worse and seeped it’s way into this fic. I got really anxious/nervous about writing the upcoming chapters and not having it be as good as I want it to be, and not being able to express what I want to express. I’ve never been to paris, and so as soon as I realized I was sending our lovely boys there, and I’d have to write about it, I freaked out. And slowly shrunk away from this project and mentally shelved it.  
> I read so many fics that my Eames’ voice became muddled and confused and every time I came back to this chapter I would question my choices. To me, this seems okay—this seems slightly ooc, but in a way that works for this fic; Eames is growing and breaking and I think this works. 
> 
> I’ve read so many Eameses(i)? that are gruff, and hard-hearted and thick-skinned and don’t show emotion and I know my Eames is like that sometimes and other times he’s teetering on the edge of something black and miserable and dark.  
> And I just want you to keep in mind (as I’ve had to remind myself) that this Eames we’re following has been broken for a little over a year. (ever since he got Mal caught).  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nervous, but back.  
> follow me on tumblr {http://rasyya.tumblr.com/} for writing updates, and just to chat. 
> 
> thank you for not abandoning me when it seemed like i had abandoned you--  
> this chapter is for your patience.

**VII.**

The next morning over a continental breakfast during which Eames resolutely doesn’t look Arthur in the face, Finch chatters on pleasantly as if he hadn’t been mewling in Eames’ arms from just a mouth on his ear the night before. Arthur announces that they will only be spending one more night in Paris before going to Florence for two days, and then back to the US.

Eames drops his knife and fork with a clatter, a rushing in his ears. Finch barely notices, only pausing momentarily to sniff derisively at Eames’ large clumsy hands, before continuing to ramble on about Saito having been called to Japan on business and insisting that they go to his private museum in Florence to examine the architecture there. Eames nearly fucking loses it when Arthur says with a tiny, lingering smile that Nash, _mother fucking Nash_ , who apparently is good enough for Arthur, will be joining them.

Eames “hms,” and “yes, of course’s,” his way through the rest of the conversation, violently desiccating the eggs benedict in front of him, barely listening to Arthur.

He can’t step foot in Italy.

The authorities there know his name, his contacts; they even have a terrible roughed-up sketch of his build, and an even messier one of his face. There’s too much at stake going to Florence, and Eames doesn’t know what to do.

Arthur has a lunch date with an old business partner and gives Eames the afternoon off, so Eames does the only thing he can think of.

He goes to Miles.

X

Eames is surprised at the smile that crinkles Miles’ face when Eames knocks on his office door at the university.

Eames was expecting a less warm welcome from Mal’s father.

“Eames. I didn’t know to expect you—” Miles looks around Eames, a glint of hope burning in his eyes, “is, she?” Eames shakes his head, frowning. Guilt stabbing into his gut like obsidian.

“Nah, mate, sorry. It’s just me.” Miles frowns, but quickly ushers Eames into the scholarly glow of his office.

Eames awkwardly rolls his shoulders, and tries to find something to do with his hands while the professor fusses with a kettle in the corner for a few moments.

Eames coughs, and Miles looks at him knowingly,

“Were you expecting a gun in your face? Eames, you know you’re like a son to me.”

Which is much worse than looking down a barrel, because the guilt twisting Eames' insides sharpens and slides, reaching up to choke.

“Well, right. I mean I did—”

Miles cuts him off, “Eames. My daughter having to seek asylum in Chicago is no fault of yours,”

“I’m the one that got her cau—”

Miles raises a hand, pinning Eames with a gaze, “Yes, but her choice of vocation was her own. She assessed the risks, and made her decision—along with marrying that reckless dreamer of hers.” The kettle whistles,

“Mal has always been independent, Eames. It would have happened eventually. The only thing I truly blame you for is getting her shot in—”

“I’m paying for that as well.” Eames growls gruffly, red flushing his face in shame.

Miles fusses with the tea, “Are you still painting?”

Eames can’t answer; a wad of something ugly clogs his throat.

Miles hands Eames a cup of tea, and sits down with his own.

They sip in silence; after a few moments, Miles closes his eyes, and leans his head back, “Eames. I so wish you had continued your studies here—I know it would have been difficult after—”

 _Nope._ Eames sets his tea down.

“Miles, I need your help.”

Miles doesn’t lift his head, just opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling,

“What have you done?” He asks quietly,

“Nothing, nothing,” Eames says.

Miles’ gaze snaps to his, both eyebrows lifting,

“Okay nothing of late, _Jesus,_ I just—I’m here on business, legitimate business Miles, and I need help getting into Florence.”

"You need to get into Florence, and you expect me to believe you have legitimate business there?" Miles laughs incredulously, "I may think of you as a son, but that doesn't mean you can bullshit me Eames."

"Miles, I swear it is. I'm here as Arthur Finch's secretary," Eames explains vehemently. He's leaning forward earnestly, fingers tightening on the arms of his chair, old wood creaking. Miles closes his eyes again, tipping back in his chair,

"Gods truth, Miles I'm—" Miles is shaking, Eames leans forward a bit more, “are you laughing at me?"

"No," Miles gasps, “I mean, yes—oh my god Eames, I mean she told me," Eames huffs in annoyance and rolls his eyes, _of course,_

"But I didn't think you'd actually admit to being a secretary! Ariadne owes Dom big time, aha haha," Eames sinks lower in his chair, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, "Mal told me you were calling yourself a, a," Miles sucks in a breath, tears leaking out of his crinkle-framed eyes "-- file manager, Eames !"

"Alright, alright, laugh it up."

Eames sulks into his tea while Miles recovers. The professor takes deep breaths, wiping tears from his eyes, only to break down again. Eames glowers at Miles over his cup.

When the professor eventually sobers, the echoing spaces between the laughter spreading longer and filling the room, he stares pensively at Eames for a long, quiet moment. "So is this your version of penance?" Eames says nothing, "I suppose it's sort of fitting." The forger’s tea is cold and bitter in his mouth like disappointment.

They sit in Miles' stuffy office, and Eames tries to enjoy the solitude; the cool dread of his request sits in the pit of his stomach, heavy and solid. The stillness blankets the two men until, after looking at his wristwatch, Miles sets down a now drained teacup and folds his hands together, resting his elbows on the expansive desk between them.

“So you need help getting into Florence, and you’re coming to me because?”

Eames sits up a little straighter, running a hand through his hair,

“I dunno Miles, I just thought—”

“Don’t you have associates who can assist you with this sort of thing?”

“I can’t. Miles, I can’t contact any of them—the risks are too high. I don’t even know who is still in the game, let alone who I can trust.”

Miles levels him with a cool stare, “except for me, apparently.”

“I know you don’t normally do this, Miles,”

“I don’t ever do this, actually,”

“I’m sorry for even asking sir, truly, but—”

“You don’t deserve my help, Eames.”

And there it is; and Eames has been expecting it, and it’s so expected that Eames finds himself sighing in relief—finally knowing where he stands,

“I don’t Miles, but I can pay you—”

“I don’t want your money, Eames. You don’t deserve my help, but if you can give me a good enough reason for me to, I will.”

And there it is; and Eames hadn’t been expecting _this,_ and it’s so unexpected that it startles him into honesty,

“So I can atone for my sins.”

Miles holds his gaze for a long time. Eames feels a burning, itching hotness behind his eyes, molten static filling his brain and his head is pounding, and he’s so goddamn tired.

“Eames, is it just being his secretary that has you so unlike yourself? I’ve never seen you so—”

“Please.” Eames barely gets out, “Please, don’t.”

Miles nods.

“Come back at half past six, Eames, and I’ll have papers for you.”

Eames feels the tightness loosen a little around his throat; he pauses at the door on his way out.

“Do you still meet up with the boys at The Winchester around the corner?”

The professor barely looks up, “I thought you said you couldn’t trust any of them?”

“If you can, I need to do a little digging on someone.”

“What’s the name?”

Eames grins.

X

A few minutes past eight o’clock that evening Eames, with beautifully forged papers from Miles burning a hole in his coat pocket, is fumbling for his hotel room key-card when he hears giggling. _Giggling._ And heated whispering. Coming from the door to his left.

Eames stares, key-card forgotten as the door opens and Nash comes tumbling out, his slender body twisting, nose still slightly swollen, his teeth gleaming in the liquid light spilling from the open door.

A shadow falls over his face, and Nash dips towards it, straightening slightly as Arthur comes to stand a black silhouette in the doorway; arms tightly crossed, but face open-- sharp clean lines, a small smile framed with bitten lips. Nash leans in closer to that smile, and Eames finds his key-card and slides it, stumbling inside; the dark room opening like a blood stained maw, welcoming him in.

He drowns himself in the darkness, burrowing into blanket-cocooned shadows, muffling. Except he can’t stop hearing giggling, and he can’t stop hearing heated whispers, and playing like a horror-show behind his closed eyelids he can’t stop seeing slick, slightly swollen lips, and crossed arms, and private flirtatious smiles.

He doesn’t sleep.

[[click for a glimpse into Arthur's POV]](http://rasyya.tumblr.com/post/88468416428/a-glimpse)

X

In the morning Eames turns his alarm clock off and pretends that he’s back in his decrepit apartment which always smells faintly of turpentine no matter how many sticks of incense Ariadne burns when she comes over.

He pretends that he’s at a bar with Dom and they’re laughing and complaining and getting irresponsibly fucked up together, and Eames pretends that Arthur is there as well, getting just as fucked up and leaning in to Eames’ space, and Eames letting him, and wishing that Arthur would look at him, just fucking look at him and _see_ him.

Eames opens his eyes, and Arthur is standing over him with a glass of water.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

Eames closes his eyes. He hears Arthur huff.

“We’re going to be late if you don’t get up Eames; I’ve already had breakfast and Nash is waiting downstairs.”

Eames keeps his eyes closed. _Not going to open them, not going to fucking open them._

“Are you—” Arthur pauses, and Eames screws his eyes shut tighter, “Eames, are you feeling well?”

Eames opens his eyes when he feels the soft cool press of condensation-moist fingers against his forehead smoothing his hair back.

Arthur is staring down at him; his expression indecipherable.  

Eames closes his eyes again and pretends and pretends and pretends this is something different when Arthur cards long slender fingers through his hair and hums quietly.

Eames _wants._ He wants to reach up and tangle his broad, blunt fingers with the ones pushing through his hair, he wants kiss the palm of Arthur’s hand, tracing the lines and whorls with his tongue, licking and sucking those artful fingers, pressing them firm against his lips.

Instead he asks, “Why didn’t you sack me when I hit Nash? You’ve fired over less.”

The hand leaves his hair abruptly.

“Check out is in fifteen minutes.”

Arthur leaves and Eames packs, feeling the ghost of fingers running through his hair and pressing at his scalp.

X

The plane ride to Florence is a fucking joke.

Eames sits behind Arthur and Nash in first class and even though the duration of the flight is just under two hours, to Eames it feels like ages. His chest feels carved out and he _knows_ what this is; not from recognition-– but from the undeniable pull of it, and the way he can’t swallow anything down, and he just—he knows. Listlessly he tries to eavesdrop on the pair in front of him, but there’s a distracting buzzing in his ears so he curls up in his chair and tries to sleep.

Eames drifts in a fog as they check into the hotel Saito booked for them, and when Arthur half-heartedly asks Eames if he’d like to join him and Nash sight-seeing, Eames declines.

The relief passing over Arthur’s face has Eames abruptly excusing himself to empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet in the privacy of his room.

Eames opens up his laptop and Skype calls Dom,

“Please pick up, please pick up, please pick up,” he chants to himself.

Mal’s face, beautiful even when pixilated, appears when the call is answered, and Eames buries his face in his hands and whispers,

“Mal, I can’t do this anymore Mal, I’m in too deep and he’s killing me.”

Mal lets him talk, and quietly soothes him; speaking softly in French occasionally, and being silent when he needs it.

He reaches over to hang up the call, after he hears her whisper quietly, “I’m so sorry I ever did this to you. That you feel like this is what needs to be done for you to forgive yourself.”

X

That evening Finch, Nash and Eames go out to eat at a place Eames suggests,

“Oh so you’ve been to Florence, Eames?” Nash says in a voice Eames wants to cut out of his throat,

“A few times, yes.”

Arthur looks at him curiously, and Eames feels restless and itchy, so after they eat he suggests they go to a bar just down the street.

The bar that Eames is used to has since changed into a thronging night club, but it’s still got liquor, so Eames pushes his way through the pulsing mass of sweaty bodies, not bothering to see if Arthur and Nash have followed him in, just heading straight to the bar. Eames rests his hands on the smooth wood, grounding himself while ordering a whisky sour.

“I’ll have the same” he hears behind him, and the calm he felt from the familiarity of the bar underneath him and the alcohol to come evaporates, and instead a tension trickles into his spine unbidden and unwelcome.

He feels Arthur sit down on the bar stool next to him, their shoulders brushing slightly. The silence stretches thick between them static and embellished with the cacophony from the club.

“I didn’t know you’d ever been to Florence,” Arthur says beside him.

“Where’s Nash?” Eames bites out.

“Outside taking a call from Saito—not sure if he’ll be joining us.” Arthur drawls pleasantly.

Eames expects to feel relieved at that, but instead the tension vibrates, making his skin sensitive with awareness of how _close_ Arthur is sitting next to him.

When their drinks come Eames grips his tightly like a lifeline, and takes a large swig—the liquor goes down smoothly and he hears Arthur clear his throat next to him. He looks over, wiping a broad hand across wet lips, and Arthur is staring at his mouth. Eames licks his lips experimentally,

“Do you want a taste?” Eames drawls.

Arthur shakes his head slightly, “I’ve got my own,” his voice is velvet and smoke and thick melting chocolate, and it makes Eames feel bold and brazen, so he sets down his own glass and grabs Arthur’s bringing it up to Finch’s mouth, catching the rim on his bottom lip, pulling it down and getting it wet.

Arthur is looking at him, eyes bright—pupils swallowing up the iris, and when his jaw gives just a little—opening his mouth wider for Eames’ inspection it slams Eames in the chest.

 “Drink up, darling,” Eames whispers hoarsely, underneath the noise of the club and he tips his hand up, and Arthur swallows. Eames can see the amber liquid filling up Arthur’s mouth so beautifully, and he can’t help but admire the line of Arthur’s throat, and the way his Adams apple bobs to keep up with the lingering pour of the drink.

Arthur takes it so elegantly that Eames just has to make him choke, splutter, ruin the perfection—so he pours faster and Arthur can’t take it all, so it just runs in rivulets out of the corners of his mouth; he chokes a little, eyes watering, and Eames has to press his free hand to his hard-on and bite his lip to keep from saying something stupid, and Arthur grabs Eames’ wrist, and tips the drink further back, swallowing everything down, licking out every last drop, tongue swiping at his own cherry lips getting them slick and wet.

Eames is going to fucking kiss him, Arthur is panting slightly, not bothering to wipe his mouth, and Eames can see how shiny it is in the dim lights of the club, and Eames isn’t thinking, and Arthur is swaying slightly on his stool but looking at him with steady eyes, and his fingers are cold like marble drawing patterns on the inside of Eames’ wrist, and so the forger leans. And Arthur’s lips start to part and –

“Faggots.”

Arthur’s expression shutters, and he jerks away from Eames, face flushing with shame, eyes hard like a stone slab of anger, disgust, fear.

Eames turns slowly and places the empty glass on the bar, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Gonna give us a show, eh boy?” The thickly accented voice taunts him.

Eames untucks his shirt, and slides it off his broad arms leaving him in just his sleeveless undershirt.  

The group behind him start to laugh.

Eames, still facing the bar, starts to fold his shirt very carefully— it was expensive, and Arthur bought it for him— plus he doesn’t want to get blood all over it.

Eames finally turns— there are four of them, and behind the slim one on the right Eames can see the slimy sniveling triumphant smirk of Nash. Eames catches his eye, and the smirk on the other man’s face grows before he slips back into the shadows.

Arthur is still standing beside Eames, facing the bar, head down and strands of his hair lie plastered to his forehead. His eyes are closed and he is breathing deeply, almost meditatively, and Eames thinks he looks like a fucking Rembrandt, and he hates how fucking cliché that is.

“Arthur. Would hold this for me please, darling.” Eames says, as he slides his folded shirt across the small space between them on the bar.

Arthur doesn’t look up. Just screws his eyes shut tighter and Eames can see his jaw clench.

So Eames rolls his shoulders a few times, cracks his knuckles and turns to face the men in front of him.

“What you gonna do faggot? You gonna fight for the honour of your boyfriend here? Hmm? He does have that damsel-in-distress look about him. Are you his knight in shining armour?” The man in the middle taunts, stepping forward.

“Nah,” Says Eames, “I’m his secretary.”

And he sets to work.

Eames has missed this; the raw-red chaos of a good ole fashioned bar fight. He goes in methodically, calculating his unpredictability, and swiftly breaks the nose of the leader before incapacitating the cronies. He doesn’t do them much damage, neatly takes care of them, before turning back to the one who had done all the speaking.

A space has cleared around them, and Eames glances back to the bar, eyes searching for Arthur.

He finds his employer leaning back on his elbows, Nash leaking poison into his ear. Arthur’s eyes are on Eames though, and they are black with fire, and pride, and interest. Eames stands there, holding the man who had interrupted them by the collar, just staring at Arthur, and Arthur stares back.

And then, a look like curiosity crosses Finch’s face, and he smiles big, bright, blinding and dangerous, and Eames feels the air in his lungs escape with a hiss, as Arthur grabs the nape of Nash’s neck, still looking at Eames, and starts licking into his mouth.

X

There’s a buzzing in his ears, but Eames thinks he can hear someone shouting his name, and feel something tugging at his arm—he bats the something away, irritated, and keeps pounding, smashing, rhythmically battering—the pain in his knuckles a pleasant sting, almost like a tender caress—a kiss.

He can hear his name again and it sounds like its being torn from someone’s throat and that makes him smile, so he keeps punching the thing in front of him. He can feel slick and warm on his knuckles and it feels like a lick; something underneath him is whimpering.

Suddenly hands wrap around his biceps, pinning his arms to his sides so he rears his head back and grins when he makes contact, hears a muffled sound of pain, but the arms grip tighter and then there’s the brush of damp hair across his neck and his cheek and also Arthur. Arthur. Arthur. Whispering in his ear.

“Eames.”

Eames struggles against the arms circling his body—

“Eames, you’ve nearly beaten him to death. Breathe with me Eames, can you feel me breathing?” Eames feels the exaggerated inhale and exhale puffing across the shell of his ear; he can feel the movement of the act pushing and pulling against his back.

He closes his eyes and listens.

“Eames, you big brute. What the fuck are you doing?” Arthur sighs against his ear, but it isn’t cruel; it's exasperated, almost fond, “What the fuck am I doing?” he murmurs to himself.

Eames grunts; he can feel the black fog clearing from his mind.

“Eames, you need to focus, can you focus for me?” Eames tries, he really does, but everything is still blurs and harsh pinpricks of circular lights.

“We need to get out of here; you’ve nearly killed this man and I’m fairly certain the authorities have been called, and I can’t find Nash.”

Eames swallows and opens his eyes.

The face on the ground in front of him is pulpy and gruesome, purples and burgundies and the bright crimson of bubbling blood. The mouth gurgles and coughs. If Eames could feel sick over things like this anymore, he would be. Instead he feels cold, and removed.

“Get me out of here.”

The frigid night air hits Eames like a bucket of ice, but Arthur is holding onto his arm and steering him down the street.

“Do you still have my shirt?”

When Arthur doesn’t say anything Eames looks over at him.

Arthur is looking back, studying him with an expression Eames can’t place.

“You bought it for me,” Eames explains.

Arthur snorts exasperatedly, “I’ll replace it.”

Eames shivers, the adrenaline that had been coursing through his body ebbing away, leaving him cold and exhausted.

He thinks he hears sirens in the distance.

“So difficult to find a taxi this late,” Arthur murmurs beside him.

“I’m fine walking.”

They continue on in silence for a few minutes. Eames shakes—it’s early December in Florence, and his coat is back at the club in coat-check most likely, and god knows where his shirt is.

“You’re cold.” Arthur says beside him.

“I’m fine.” Eames grunts. His knuckles are starting to ache, and he looks at them—

There’s too much blood to tell if the skin is split, or how bruised they are.

He feels tired and his hands are throbbing with every step; he should feel guiltier, probably, but he can’t; not with the image of Arthur biting Nash’s bottom lip playing on loop. Bite, suck. Bite, suck. Bite, suck.

He feels silk against his shoulders and realizes that Arthur has given him his shirt.

Eames tries to shrug it off and tries not to gawk at all of the smooth, flawless skin Arthur is displaying in his undershirt, and fails at both.

“Don’t need it, darling, I told you I’m fine.”

“There wasn’t enough time to get our coats and no, you’re not.”

Eames is too drained to argue.

X

It isn’t until they’re standing in front of the door to Arthur’s hotel room that Eames really starts to feel it— the pain radiating from his knuckles, the taste of copper when he swipes a tongue across his lip—split from a right hook—the drumming in his chest that isn’t from the fight, but from what preceded it—the delicious submissiveness of Arthur drinking down that whiskey, the way Eames could smell it on his breath when he leaned in for a kiss, the hungry way Arthur kissed Nash.

Eames feels the panic coming, stalking and strangling like a predator.

The door in front of them opens, and there is a steadying hand pressing at his back between his shoulder blades, and they stand in front of the door into Arthur’s room just breathing until Arthur smooths his hands soothingly up and down Eames’ arms, and Eames just. Breaks.

Numbness overwhelms him, even still his chest is heaving wracked with guilt; not from beating that homophobic fuckwad into a bloody mess, but from losing it in front of Finch, from feeling like this, from not fucking that steward on the plane, from punching Nash, from disappointing Arthur. He feels sick from wishing and hoping and dreaming, and Arthur’s hands still against his arms and slowly lead him forward into the darkness of the room in front of them.

They stand there in the dark and Arthur soothes away the blueness of panic eventually guiding him to the bathroom joining their rooms, and Eames finds himself sitting in the soft glow of tile and porcelain calmly watching Arthur start running the bath.

“What are you doing?” Eames asks. He feels like he’s drifting up out of his body.

“You’re filthy,” Arthur replies exasperatedly, as if it’s obvious.

“Are you going to bathe me?” Eames asks, and he wishes he had said it more like the crisp crimson of flirtation, instead of the burgundy bitterness he tastes in his mouth.

Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Eames asks.

Arthur doesn’t answer, just keeps running perfect fingers through the stream of water jetting out of the faucet.

Eames watches him.

“Sorry about your nose.” Eames guesses; there’s a purplish bruise smudging across the bridge of Arthur’s nose, and Eames thinks it was probably him.

“Alright, undress and get in, you have forty-five seconds, and then I’ll be back to keep you company.”

“You think I’m going to fucking drown myself?” Eames scoffs.

Arthur eyes him, “honestly? I’ve never seen anyone as completely fucked up as you, Eames. I don’t know what I think you’ll do, but you’re in no position to be by yourself right now.”

Eames shrugs off Arthur’s shirt, and tugs off his undershirt, hissing in pain. When he looks up, Arthur is looking at him, and his face is pinched in unmistakable concern.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Eames is desperate, shivering, undone.

“I don’t know, I don’t know—you just…”Arthur trails off. _Finish it._ Eames prays, _fucking finish it._   

“Hurry up and get in the bath,” Arthur clips, as he turns on his heel and exits the bathroom.

Eames sighs and finishes undressing, wincing as he lowers himself into the hot water.  

Eames barely notices that Arthur is in the room, letting the hot water carry him away, cushioning him. When he feels the last of the tension seeping away, he cracks open an eye. Arthur is perched on the toilet, scrolling through his iPad.

“Why did you do that? Back there?” Eames asks.

“Hm?” Arthur says, tapping away at the screen.

“You heard me.”

Arthur looks up; he’s changed into a sleep-soft gray t-shirt and silk pajama bottoms and Eames has never seen him look so casual, so comfortable, so beautiful.

“I was curious.”

“Curious.” Eames says, tasting the word.

“To see what you would do. You did not disappoint. What demons must chase you Mister Eames.” Arthur goes back to his iPad. Eames should feel sick, but instead he feels something like the beginning of arousal twisting his stomach.

“You wanted me, back there.”

Arthur doesn’t look up, just ‘hms’ quietly.

“You want me to fuck you.” Eames feels the sweet security of recklessness, the freefalling caress of uncaring unruliness, rashness. His heart feels like it’s balancing on something; precarious, fragile.

Finch sighs and puts down the iPad, the gaze he levels Eames with is cold and cruel with precision. Eames feels dread curl itself around his limbs, as if guessing what Eames is feeling, Arthur smiles,

“I’m never going to want _you_ to fuck _me,_ darling.” 

Eames has been shot before, so he knows to expect the pain.

“Liar,” Eames whispers, hopes,

Arthur’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head, measuring,

“What exactly is it that you did before you became my secretary mister Eames? I’ve never seen anyone fight quite like that. Military trained were you?”

Eames clenches his jaw, looking stolidly away.

“That’s what I thought. Now finish up.”

Eames stands, letting the water run off of his body in streams like a goddamn porno, and Arthur holds his gaze cheeks tinging slightly pink, but his eyes growing colder and colder until they glint.

Eames pushes a hand down to his cock, coaxing it to hardness swiftly, eyes steadily burning into Arthur’s. 

He sees Finch’s gaze flicker down and hears his sharp intake of breath ricochet off the tiles, and Eames' cock blurts precome hot and slick against his hand.

They say nothing; Eames’ normally dirty mouth dry, too scared to break this fragile thing between them, Arthur’s breathing becoming louder and faster echoing through the thickness.

Eames’ hand speeds up, the wet sounds of his wanking lewd and sharp; rhythmically accenting the pounding he can hear in his ears.

His hips begin to stutter when he looks down at Arthur’s lap and sees the outline of his cock obscenely hard and straining against silk; Arthur’s hands resting lightly on his knees, his gaze unwavering—piercing through Eames. It takes everything in Eames not to fucking come on the spot when Arthur slowly drags his eyes down Eames’ torso, his look like a heavy touch settling on Eames' dick.

Arthur licks his lips, and Eames' cockhead leaks profusely, sliding wetly through his fist.

Eames can barely stand it, he _needs_ this, _oh god please, Arthur please, please,_ he bites his lips raw, straining in silence. 

Arthur waits.

“Please,” he finally lets out, groaning with the need to come.

“Come for me,” Arthur growls low and dark and sinuous and tender, strangled and fearful; and Eames can’t help it—not when it comes to Arthur, and he nearly whites out with how hard he comes, and he gasps out,

“darling” into the chasm between them.

He rides out the waves of pleasure shaking his body, and when he eventually opens his eyes the bathroom is empty.

The stillness envelopes him like ice.

He pads softly to the door to Arthur’s room, and tries it. It’s locked. He leans his forehead against the frame,

“What are you doing to me?” he whispers.

That night he dreams of avalanches and tipping chairs and blood and whisky stained kisses, and the soft brush of fingers through his hair, and an apology like a kiss on his forehead.

“I don’t know,” he imagines he hears Arthur saying to him, “I don’t know.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Reo, who never waves back

**viii.**

Eames detangles himself from sweaty sheets at about six am, and goes for a run.

He runs until his lungs burn, and he doesn’t know if he’s chasing or being chased; all he knows is that his head is full of gray and he hates Arthur with every fiber of his being.

The guilt of wanting to crawl back for more stretches and slides underneath Eames’ skin, and he tries to sweat it out, feet pounding on the pavement in an unsteady chaotic rhythm.

He runs.

Until he is gasping, and he realizes he’s not running from anything, or to anything, he’s just. Running. To drown out the loneliness, the creeping sadness, the betrayal that wraps lingering like a whisper; manifesting itself in flashes of memory and ghosting sensation.

Arthur’s cock tenting silk, the light way his hands rested on his knees never touching, flighty like a bird. Arthur’s eyelashes lowering slightly, the way he licked his lips—a soft slow drag of wet tongue, the arch of an elegant eyebrow at the way Eames’ hand had twisted _just so_ and the groan of accompanying pleasure it elicited.

Eames runs harder.

He feels sick, disgusting, used; putting himself on display like that for Arthur, he doesn’t know why he did it. Curiosity?

Eames stops, and retches bile onto the side of road.

He’s never been so ashamed of himself.

The raw feeling of emptiness follows him through the streets of Florence.

X

It’s a quarter past seven when Eames wearily shuffles into the shower, running kit a haphazard trail behind him, legs like gelatin and body shaking with endorphins.

He lets himself relax; body over-sore, and mind thankfully, peacefully blank and cotton-filled— floating.

Hot salty drips make his eyelashes stick together, and when he runs his tongue over full-lips he tastes his humiliation.

The forger hunches his head forward and turns the water to blistering, steam curling around him, condensation making his eyes water, the water boiling away disappointment, regret; embarrassment.

Eames’ body aches; from the fight last night, from his run. Absentmindedly he brushes a thumb over his knuckles; the skin is split in several places, the whole mess mottled and bruised. He remembers them sticky and stinging with someone else’s blood and he smiles, and then frowns at himself. 

He turns the shower off abruptly, and just. Stands there dripping, beginning to shiver in the cool air. Closing his eyes he dredges up that _moment;_ the sharp divine release of pleasure followed swiftly by the encompassing feeling of being alone.

Numbly, Eames walks over to the stainless steel rack where white, fluffy terrycloth towels folded perfectly sit in rows and rows and rows stretching off into infinity.

He wraps one around his waist after brusquely drying himself.

His stomach feels hollow and he knows the effects of the endorphins and adrenaline from his run are beginning to fade, and for the first time in a long time he really, _really_ wants to do something stupid.

He knows he’s not in a good place right now, he knows Arthur’s fucked him up beyond repair, and no matter how much he runs, or drinks, or fucks, or fights, nothing is ever going to be the same after this.

The thought makes him clench his fist, and the overwhelming urge to punch something, to break something, to ruin everything and anything swells and bursts bright in his chest, and he whirls around,

And makes an involuntary, wounded sound as he comes face to face with Arthur.

Arthur, whose hair is mussed and undeniable sexy.

Arthur, who’s blinking at Eames drowsily, slowly, as if still half-asleep.

Arthur, whose mouth is soft looking, and slack.

Arthur, who’s looking at Eames like a dream. Within a dream.

Eames is still breathing heavily, his fists clenched, towel slung low on his hips.

He knows what he must look like; wild— unbridled, because he can feel it, can feel it curling low in the pit of his stomach, the desire to smash something, bloody something, still tangling up his fists.

Arthur steps forward a little, hand rising between them, as if to _tame_ Eames, and.

Eames visibly flinches, and takes a step back. And there’s this feeling, indescribable, a feeling you get when you _ache_ with missing someone, when you have to say goodbye; a suffocating, squeezing feeling located around his heart.

 The only sound in the room is Eames’ nervous panting, and the cloth-dulled sound of Arthur’s hand falling limply to his side.

“My apologies,” Arthur says, words sleep-slurred and hoarse. Eames wants to hear the sound on loop, every morning, for the rest of his life.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know,” Arthur steps forward again, hand at the back of his neck,

“I didn’t think you would be awake.”

Finch has the gall, the _audacity_ to look sheepish.

Eames turns his back to him, hands still clenched at his sides, his face hot with justifiable fury, mortification of last night’s degradation; the pumping of his fist around his cock, the filthy-slick slide of it, the pinpricks of white smudging into pink where Arthur’s teeth bit into his own lip.

He nearly sobs when he feels Arthur’s hand on his shoulder. He knows Arthur can feel him shaking, and he wants to shrug the hand off, it’s branding him; the light touch cool like the smoothest marble.

He nearly sobs when the hand falls away.

“I’m _sorry,_ Eames.” Arthur says, and the sound of it is quiet, but loud with regret, and with sorrow, and with shame, and it gives Eames the courage to turn around.

“I’m sorry about, everything.” Arthur is looking at him in earnest, broad and beautiful and morning-disheveled but still held-together; overwhelmingly gorgeous in his remorse, and it gives Eames the strength to smile bravely at him,

“Don’t worry about it, darling.”

Arthur’s shoulders don’t relax, and the pinched crease between his eyebrows doesn’t smooth away, and Eames doesn’t know what else to do, so he leaves Arthur standing there, looking like a dream, helplessly blinking at him, whispering,

“Don’t call me ‘darling’.”

X

At half past eight they meet in the hotel café for breakfast.

Eames is one part irritated, and two parts relieved that Arthur’s apparently decided to ignore the whole affair.

Eames nearly kissing Arthur at a bar, and then getting into a brawl over it? Didn’t happen.

Eames jerking it until he came all over himself in front of Arthur? Definitely not going there.

Arthur’s attempt at apology this morning? Not going to mention it.

 

Eames can play this game.

Eames fucking _loves_ playing this game. 

 

So he laughs at a particularly vicious remark Arthur makes to their waitress, and when Arthur’s eyes slide over to him in surprise, he grins, and licking his lips, orders his goddamn breakfast.

He feels like he’s painted himself on, hollow on the inside like a statue, and he hides underneath a vibrant veneer.

He knows Finch sees through it, in the telltale why his lips tighten, and that worried crease between his eyebrows shows up again, so Eames just becomes.

Bigger, brighter, more everything, more _Eames,_ until Arthur laughs hesitantly at something ridiculously salacious Eames purrs, and Eames relaxes minutely, the chance to play a different version of himself comforting.

The familiarity of being _this_ Eames, of being this flirtatious teasing caricature of himself.

The relief he feels when Finch goes along with it.

 

He can do this.

_He can fucking do this._

X

Eames doesn’t know if he can fucking do this.

They’re at Saito’s private museum so that Arthur can sketch and take notes for the gallery. The architecture is refined and sophisticated with a modern pureness that has Arthur leaning his head back in admiration and sketching furiously, has Eames admiring the column of Arthur’s neck, and the way he brushes absentmindedly at his hair, chews on his fingernails, eyebrows gathering together in concentration as he drags pen along paper.

Eames’ fingers itch to sketch as well; sketch Arthur like this—so wholly  beautiful in concentration. He watches Arthur at a distance, the mesmerizing gesture of Arthur’s arm moving in calculated swoops, his sleeves pushed up past his forearms, his tie loosened. He looks like home.

Eames hears Nash before he sees him, the voice behind him making him see black, making him hear soft whispers and giggling. Eames forces himself to breathe deeply, keeping his hands carefully at his side, but he can still hear Nash’s laughing in the back of his mind, jealousy tinging the edge of his vision as he watches the pretentious arsehole saunter over to Arthur, who is smiling at him easily, eyes flickering from him to Eames, and then back again.

Eames pretends not to pay them any attention, but he’s desperately trying to hear what they’re saying, what Nash could have said to make Arthur laugh like _that._ And then Arthur is pointing behind him, and retreating to a corner to sketch, and Nash is walking towards Eames and Eames just.

Not going to happen.

He’s not fast enough.

“Eames,” Nash says coolly, like a snake.

"Nash,” Eames clips without turning around.

 “Quite the little show you put on last night,” Nash taunts.

“Didn’t know if you caught it, seeing as you were so hasty to leave,” Eames is tired.

 Nash’s laugh is nasally and revolting. It heats up Eames’ skin, makes him miss his gun more than ever.

 “Did a little digging into your background Eames,” Nash says, and Eames turns around slowly.

“Oh?” he says.

They’re standing in a wide open space, paintings a still audience, their voices harsh and rough marring the beauty around them.

Nash licks his lips,

“I’m sorely tempted to tell your employer what you used to get up to on European soil.” His grin is predatory, smug. Eames wants to backhand it off of his face.

“What’s keeping you from doing so?” Eames asks nonchalantly, observing his fingernails.

He knows he’s gotten to Nash when his smile turns sticky-sweet and triumphant,

“Don’t think I won’t Eames.”

And while Eames is considering what to say to that, the childish petulance of the entire situation not lost on him, he realizes that he just doesn’t. Fucking care anymore. It’s _Arthur,_ it’s fucking Arthur. He doesn’t give a goddamn and while he’s realizing this: that he would do it, would expose himself as a forger to Arthur, his fingers start tingling, and he can _hear_ his heartbeat, and when the fuck did that happen?

He doesn’t care if Arthur finds out, _wants_ him to know, even, knows he shouldn’t because he _can’t_ trust Finch, he _can’t, A_ nd it’s all just too much and then Nash takes his silence as stubbornness against a blackmail Eames doesn’t fully understand, and the PA starts whispering slimily,

“You want him, don’t you? I can tell. But he doesn’t want you. Get that into your head. He wants _me._ So fuck off, or I’ll tell him about your pathetic conman past. Just sit back and be a good little secretary while I fuck him raw.”

Eames doesn’t care about Arthur finding out about him, so he doesn’t say anything. Turns away from Nash determined to get out of this situation before he embarrasses Arthur further and accidentally kills Nash.

“Or,” and it’s the feline hissing of the word, the drawn out roll of it that has Eames stopping in his tracks, ice dripping along his spine, the hair on the back of his neck standing up,

“Or,” and he feels heat at his back, and goose bumps along his arms, and he doesn’t think he’s breathing anymore,

“I will _ruin_ Arthur.”

“What?” Eames lets out in a breath, confusion and fear drenching the question,

Nash chuckles in his ear and if he had his gun he wouldn’t wait for the rest of it, just blam! Bits of brain and cranium and blood splattered everywhere,

“If you don’t back off and let me mark up all that unmarked goodness, then I will ruin him. I know he’s not out and—”

Eames fucking snaps.

He doesn’t know how, doesn’t remember really, but suddenly Nash’s face is an inch from his own, and he’s biting out low angry words, threatening words, biting stabbing words of violence and hatred and it’s a growling stream of obscenity littered murderous intention.

Nash is trying to backpedal, but Eames won’t let him, grips him tighter around the throat, finds a nice vertical surface to push him up against until his feet are just lazily swaying off the ground.

“If you did research on me,” Eames’ fingers spasm tighter making Nash choke and splutter, “then you undoubtedly came across a list of my many, _many_ talents.”

Nash tries to nod.

He is unsuccessful.

“And more importantly, you undoubtedly came across the name Mal,” Nash’s eyes widen, and he tries to croak something out,

“And a list of her many, _many_ talents.”

Nash looks like he’s going to puke.

“If you vomit on me I swear Nash I will squeeze the life out of you and throw you into a dumpster. Technically ‘Eames’ isn’t in the country, he doesn’t exist. So don’t think I won’t.”

Nash’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and he tries to claw at the arm holding him up,

“I’m going to set you down now, because I want you to hear what I have to say.”

Eames sets him down and loosens his hold fractionally, Nash drags in ragged breaths, sucking in air greedily,

“I had a friend of mine look into you Nash,” because of course Miles had come through, “and I must say—you’re not quite the paragon of virtue yourself.”

Eames resists the temptation to laugh in Nash’s dumbfounded face,

“You’re not the only one with contacts Nash. Now. Here’s how this is going to go, you’re going to stop being a little bitch, and, hey. Focus, focus.” Nash squirms, uncomfortable, but makes eye contact.

“You’re going to put in the best word for Finch to Saito, and guarantee him the gallery, or I will fucking gut you, Nash. I know about the gambling, I know about the boys, I. Know. Everything. You are a worm. I don’t give a fuck whether or not Arthur wants me,” Eames swallows around the lie, “I don’t give a fuck whether or not Arthur knows about what I used to do,” he redeems it with the truth, “but you will not.” He punctuates this with a vicelike grip, “Ever talk about Arthur like that again. You will not out Arthur.”

He can taste blood on his tongue like elixir, “If Arthur pursues you, you will be a gentleman to him, you will pay for everything, you will treat him with consideration and care, not like a prize to be fucking won. But you will let that choice be his. And now,” Eames lets go of Nash and smoothes the crumpled front of his shirt as he sees Arthur round the corner, distractedly dreamily pouring over his sketchbook, “You will fuck off.”

Eames rolls his shoulders, watching amusedly as Nash scuttles off into the recesses of the museum to lick his wounds.

The forger looks over at Arthur, surrounded by beauty; belonging.

Eames likes the building; Saito really does have good taste, and he’s excited to see how Arthur’s going to adapt it into a gallery space. He sidles silently up to Arthur, noting the stiffening of shoulders, and the way Finch’s jaw clenches, the stuttering of pen against paper.

He distracts himself from the tightening in his chest by looking at the piece they are standing in front of and then he takes a deep breath. He looks closely at the brush marks, smiles ruefully, and sighs. Arthur looks over at him curiously, knuckles white around his pen, shutting his moleskin with a snap.

Eames doesn’t know why it’s like this with Arthur, it just is. Something he was completely unprepared for, unwanted and everything he’s ever wanted. He can’t help himself, and he’s already drowning, so what’s one big suck-full of water to numb his lungs—he plunges,

“Last night you asked what kind of work I did before I started working for you?” Arthur turns, one eyebrow raised, “This.” Eames says gesturing to the Degas on the wall in front of them, “This is mine.”

Eames waits patiently for the fall out.

For the yelling, for the shouting, for all of this to finally just be _over._

But Arthur studies him silently, intrigue and doubt cluttering up his features.

“Did you sign it?”

Eames points to a mark hidden in plain sight, an E nestled among the economic impressionistic strokes of a ballet skirt.

Arthur squints.

“Interesting,” he murmurs and, looking up, begins sketching the rafters.

It feels like a slap to the face, how much of a non-issue it apparently is to Finch. It’s worse than coming in front of Arthur, than coming _for_ Arthur; this is _everything._

This is fucking Eames! Raw, unfiltered, out there in the open masquerading as someone else and Arthur just. Doesn’t give a fuck.  Eames swallows loudly and turns around, finding solace in front of the warmth of a Rembrandt.

X

Eames knows he’s been sleeping too much.

He thinks this even as he pulls the duvet up over his head, and snuggles into the mattress further.

He feels exhausted, he wants to just drift— if he wasn’t entirely certain he wouldn’t get the word ‘darling’ inked over his chest in big, bold letters he’d be getting a tattoo right now.

Floating away on the buzzing burning pain.

Instead he sleeps. Naps. Tries to forget the fact that Arthur is on a date with Nash right now.

And the cutting, cruel, callous words they exchanged before Arthur left smelling of aftershave and looking delectable wrapped up in fine-cut clothes, knock about in Eames’ head taunting, twisting.

It had started on their drive back to the hotel from the museum, when Eames had suggested a late lunch, and then sight-seeing, wanting to watch Arthur a little more; tease out smile lines, and glares and pretend that they were more than just CEO and secretary.

“I was going to order room-service actually, I have a conference call in a little under an hour, and I have some things I need to get done.” Arthur hadn’t looked up at him, just sat next to him thumbing through his sketchbook and making notes.

“Dinner then,” Eames said grandly, content to just be.

“Can’t. I’ve got a date.”

Eames doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride back to the hotel.

He doesn’t say anything when they are in the elevator, each standing at different corners, resolutely ignoring the other.

He doesn’t say anything when they are sliding key-cards and opening doors.

He stands in his room. The quiet profound, the loneliness pronounced.

The carpet has a small stain on it, from wine maybe? He doesn’t know.

He stood there for a while. Eames isn’t sure for how long, but the shadows began to tilt across the carpet, until a everything was blurred and soft.

He heard Arthur rummaging in the bathroom, so he went in and said something.

“Are you going with him?”

“Jesus Eames, you can’t just sneak up on people like that,” Arthur is smoothing his hair back in the mirror, he looks like a gangster, he looks.

“Are you going with him?”

Arthur catches his eye in the mirror, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Eames struggles out, “Okay,” he says more quietly, to himself. He’s going to leave, he’s going to go and drink everything in the mini-fridge and then just sleep for days he’s so fucking tired. But, he just needs to know,

“So, he’s good enough for you?” Eames says to Arthur’s back.

Arthur leans forward, gripping the edge of the sink,

“Don’t do this Eames.”

“I need to know, Arthur. Please.”

“Eames.”

“You owe me this.” Eames says, and it’s true.

Arthur’s eyes snap to his through the reflection, and his voice is low,

“It’s nothing Eames, he means nothing.”

“Then why the fuck are you doing this?” Eames’ voice is a little wild at the end.

“He’s just a bit of fun, Eames, what’s the big deal?” Arthur turns, arms out, placating, “You do it all the time.”

“But he’s—” Eames can’t finish it. Arthur’s eyes narrow.

“He’s what?”

Eames changes tactics, frustrated at Arthur, at himself, but needing answers, _deserving_ answers.

“So he’s just a bit of fun.” Eames barely recognizes his voice; it’s devoid of emotion, empty and hollowed out.

“He doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Eames tries not to, he really tries not to yell, but.

“So if he doesn’t mean anything to you, and I’m not good enough for you, then what the fuck Arthur? What the _fucking fuck_ are you doing?!” he points at himself, “I mean nothing to you too Arthur, so why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you just fuck me, and then let me go. Why can’t you just.” His shoulders hunch, it takes every shred of his willpower not to spill out his anguish, his frustration.

His words ring in space between them, damning, and visible and Arthur looks taken aback, and guilty, and hot—so fucking hot like molten metal and summer-warmed concrete.

“You don’t.” It feels like a bullet to the brain and Eames wishes he could wake up from this, that it would all just be a dream, but then Arthur is in front of him, and cupping his face, fingers caressing stubble, a thumb smoothing over his plump bottom lip, and looking into his eyes and _seeing_ him, and saying,

“You don’t mean nothing to me Eames, you great big brute, it’s just. I _can’t._ ”

And then he leaves smelling of anticipation and nerves, and the expectation of sex; looking controlled and perfect wrapped up in a fine-cut suit.

So Eames sleeps.

X

When he wakes up it’s dark out and his watch reads a little past 10pm, so he tip-toes through the bathroom and tries the door to Finch’s room; it’s unlocked, and the room empty.

He drinks everything in the mini-fridge.

He wishes he could blame it on the alcohol when he hears the slamming of the door announcing Arthur’s return.

He wishes he felt more embarrassed by the fact that he was camped out in the bathroom, back to the door leading to Finch’s room, waiting up for him.

He wishes he had anything to blame but the alcohol when he barges into Arthur’s room, wiping the lingering smile off his face with,

“Did you fuck him?”

Arthur’s eyes are stone-cold, cutting like obsidian and pouring ice into Eames’ heart with the intensity of his gaze. His words are calculated, his air flippant,

“What’s it to you?” he’s hanging his jacket in the closet, because Finch is the type of person to unpack his suitcase in a hotel even if they’re only staying for several nights, and that really fucking annoys Eames so he tells him..

Arthur just laughs.

Eames gets back on task, “Did you fuck him?” He asks gruffly. He feels like a child, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, purplish-blue light flooding the floor in front of him, spilling out from behind.

Arthur sighs put-upon, and slides his tie out of his collar with a slithering scrape.

“He didn’t show.”

Eames can’t help the wide smile putting crooked teeth on display.

“Good.” He says, pleased. Looks like his little talk with Nash seemed to have stuck.

Arthur hms, and collapses into the armchair by the window,

“What have you been up to? Smells like you’ve taken liberties with the mini-fridge?”

“You should stay away from Nash. He’s a bad man,” Eames ignores the mini-fridge comment.

“Can’t be any worse than an internationally wanted forger though, can he?” Arthur says lazily, eyes closed, sprawled in the armchair,

Eames’ chest snatches. Blackness drips in to his mind and sludges its way in to his heart, his gut. It tastes like betrayal, like. It burns behind his eyes and he shakily takes a breath. He should never have shared that with Arthur—he knew. _He knew._ But he couldn’t help himself.

 “Fuck you,” Eames’ lips curl around a snarl,

Arthur’s eyes snap open with surprise, his mouth forming a slack-soft O.

“What? Eames, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Don’t you fucking dare Arthur Finch,” Eames is helpless to keep his voice from rising, “I may be a low-life forger, but at least I’m not a childish closeted fucking bully playing at being a grown-up!” Eames regrets it as soon as the half-truth leaves his mouth.

He’s never seen Arthur look like this, an untamed fury focusing his features, a hardened cut-off frigid stiffening, unrestrained, uninhibited hurt, and then restrained, calm wrath.

Arthur’s voice is syrupy and quiet with rage,

“Well, Mr. Eames, at least I’m not a phony—at least I’ve got a career in front of me, instead of being stuck as the secretary to a _child._ ”

Arthur stands, self-possessed in his anger, voice firm and unrelenting, mocking,

“I don’t know why I haven’t fired you yet—probably because Mal begged me to give you a chance; you don’t deserve her friendship, or this job. You’re completely fake, through and through, transparently so. An artist? A painter? Hah!” The laugh is without mirth, “What a joke. You’re a liar and a cheap imitation.”

“So fire me.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Mr. Finch. Fire me.”

The silence stretches between them, and he can see Arthur start to draw into himself, shifting from foot to foot, before looking out the window, a pristine, flawless mask carefully pulled into place.

“I apologize Mr. Eames. My outburst was, as you would say, childish.” Eames wants to tell Arthur he’s sorry. Kiss away the mask until it’s Arthur standing in front of him again. Arthur, who is careful and contrite and cold and gorgeous and Eames is so fucked when it comes to him, that the fight just leaves him in a rush.

“I—” Eames starts, but nothing will come out.

“You’re very lucky to have Mal. And you’re very talented, Eames. My sincerest apologies.”

Eames can’t form the words, so he walks up to Arthur and gathers him into his arms and tries to pour everything he wants to say into a simple hug.

“My first job was at the firm as an office manager,” he hears Arthur say, smothered against his shoulder. And Eames smiles, because this is the actual apology.

Eames pulls back, brow furrowed, “Office manager? Isn’t that a bit like being a secretary?”

“Administrative professional,” Arthur corrects, “And no. it’s nothing like that.”

“You’re beautiful, Arthur,” Eames can’t help himself; the tips of Arthur’s ears are pink, “but you need to stop fucking with me. I can’t. I can’t do it anymore.”

“You should get some sleep,” Arthur turns away from him, “We fly out tomorrow, and you’re going to have a wicked hang-over.”

X

Eames is dreaming of Mal.

She’s lost in a labyrinth, stretching out in a winding never-ending infinity, and Eames can’t find her. “Come find me, I’m in limbo, my love,” She whispers, and Dom is with him and he’s crying, and there are ashes in the air, floating all around them. And then Eames’ hands are sticky, and he looks down, and Mal is in his arms, blood coming out of her side and drenching Eames with it. Dom is looking at him; stricken, a gun shakily waving in his face, Dom’s finger is on the trigger, his face a ghostly white. “Don’t do this, Dom,” Eames is rocking Mal back and forth, trying to get her to wake up, “It’s your fucking fault you lying sack of thieving _shit!”_ Dom screams in his face and pulls the trigger and Eames.

Wakes up.

Someone is shaking him, and when his hand slides under his pillow and meets nothing but cool silk, he remembers he doesn’t have a gun.

“Eames, Eames, it’s me. It’s Arthur. I think you were having a nightmare,”

Eames is still looking frantically for a weapon, unable to control the spasming of his body. The fear a clenching grip on his heart.

He looks at Arthur, eyes wide and desolate “She could have been dead because of me, she could have died. Because of me.” And Arthur is soothing him, a hand on his forehead, and then the condensation-wet side of a glass and tipping against his lips, and the soothing cooling of water trickling down his parched throat.

He slides back into the seductive arms of sleep.

Eames wakes up to the blaring of his alarm clock. Blearily he rubs at his eyes, groggily shaking the sleep from his head.

He opens his eyes, and then closes them again, convinced he’s dreaming.

He’s not.

Arthur is curled up in the bottle-green armchair by the window, tousled head pillowed on his arms, a blanket draped over him.

It is the single most beautiful thing Eames has ever seen, and he wants this. He wants this thing with Arthur, whatever it is. Whatever he can get, he wants it. He doesn’t give a goddamn if it hurts as much, or more than it has, because he knows that after seeing Arthur like this, he’s never going to not want him. He’s never going to be free of him.

Eames lounges in the luxury of being able to stare unabashedly at a vulnerable sleep drowsy Arthur, until he wakes up.

Eames grins at him, when Arthur’s eyes narrow and he runs a hand self-consciously through his hair,

“You asked me to stay.” Is all he says before gathering up the blanket and stalking as dignified as possible to his own room.

X

Because Eames asked him to stay.

Eames runs down to a lovely little café to grab them some breakfast before they begin packing, and he’s balancing coffee and croissants and he’s a little confused when he opens the door to his room to find Arthur sitting on his bed, the contents of Eames’ bag strewn around him and Eames’ passport in one hand, and a sketchbook in the other.

Eames stops in the doorway, his hand still on the handle.

Arthur looks up at him expectantly, guilt smudging across his face briefly, and then his features harden into resolve.

“Who is Edward Thomas?” He asks evenly.

Eames shuts the door behind him, and sets their breakfast down on the coffee table. He knows Arthur knows he’s stalling.

“It is my father’s name.” He doesn’t lie.

“Hm.” Is all Arthur says, and then he folds the passport and puts it down next to him, pulling the sketchbook further into his lap.

“And this?” he asks, his eyebrow rising slightly.

Eames doesn’t know what the fuck that is, it’s not—

He sees charcoaled lines drawn with abandon and pent up frustration and hope and longing and desire stark against the creamy white promise of paper and.

The panic rises, and he chokes back bile and Arthur knows.

For certain; Eames could never hide anything in his drawings.

So he runs.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥  
> this one hurt to write.
> 
> come chat, if you wanna. http://rasyya.tumblr.com/

**IX.**

“Mister Eames,”

Eames screws his eyes shut tighter and hunches tension-tense shoulders against the chilly condescension of Arthur’s voice. 

The hang-over from last night’s recklessness seems to be catching up with him, and his head is rough-bright, over-full suffocation; his stomach roiling in alcohol soaked self-hatred and discontent. 

“Eames,” the voice repeats, cracking into the smudging dawn like a gun, unexpectedly warm— almost exasperatedly fond.

Eames tilts his head back against the building behind him and opens his eyes, squinting against the cool clear brilliance of the man looming over him. 

“I thought I might find you up here,” Arthur laughs gently, gesture helplessly encompassing the roof and the city falling away beneath them. Eames blinks up at him slowly; fingers picking at the rough callouses on his palm.

“Look, Eames,” Arthur tries, brushing the hair falling across his forehead away impatiently, “I’m sorry for snooping, okay?” It’s said so quietly, and with such heavy remorse and wistfulness that Eames closes his eyes again, fingertips mapping the whorls and lines on his palm.

The forger feels something shift in the air around him, the red-orange light filtering through his closed eyelids goes dark and blue, and suddenly there is this crushing feeling of _Arthur_ all around him; he hears himself inhale sharply, and he can’t help himself— he opens his eyes.

Arthur is crouched down in front of him, left hand steadying himself against the bricks at Eames’ back, forearm close enough that Eames can feel the heat radiating from it against his cheek. Eames can see the freckles faintly speckled across the bridge of Arthur’s nose, the beginning of creased smile lines deliciously framing the crinkle of his eyes and Eames—well.

He can’t help smiling, breathing in the cold marble-clean stone smell of Arthur enveloping him, surrounding him like an intimate embrace; holding him unforgivingly, unwaveringly. Eames feels his smile broaden, almost drunkenly drowsy on the closeness of Arthur; the man’s eyes widen slightly, and Eames can see his own stupid oafish grin reflected in their unfathomable fluidity, and then Arthur is leaning forward slowly, as if unable to help himself, and Eames is drawn to him like a fucking moth to the proverbial goddamn flame, and Arthur is so close; so _fucking_ close. Eames can feel his breath scorching against the dryness of Eames’ fat lips, and Eames is so fucking overwhelmed, the air to his lungs coming and going in searing sharp pants, so he closes his eyes against the tightness in his throat and the drowning feeling in his chest, the space between them goes electric and fantastic and bright and Eames feels the first brush of lips against his and then–

He feels the cool rushing air of Arthur’s departure and the sting of perfect lips skimming across his forehead like a prayer for forgiveness, a blessing, a confession.

“Our plane leaves in less than two hours; we’re running late—I’ll see you in the lobby twenty minutes. Not twenty-one minutes, Mister Eames, twenty; if you’re late, consider yourself fired, as well as stranded.”

Arthur turns sharply on his heel, leaving Eames nodding dully, fingers loose and tingly across his knees.  

X 

Arthur says nothing until they are halfway across the Atlantic, and Eames is lethargic-syrupy, body lax with exhaustion, head lolling against the oval cloud-filled window; so close to numbing sleep that he barely registers that Arthur is speaking to him,

“They’re good, you know. Your sketches.” His voice is low and rough like gravel and it makes Eames’ gut clench.

Eames swallows thickly and pulls his flight issued blanket closer,

“Your condescension, as always, is much appreciated Arthur, thank you.”

 X

They part ways at baggage claim, Eames having spotted his bag early on, and keen to kick-off, looking forward to a weekend with no Arthur Finch whatsoever.

His Saturday night is spent in the cluttered cosiness of his own apartment, cartons upon cartons of savoury Thai take-out, a laughing Ariadne, an overly-emotional Mal, and a very drunk—but hopelessly pretending not to be—Cobb, and the flickering glow of the television. Eames greedily drinks in the familiar chaos of their company and lets it seep into his skin, feeling the faint ghost of it long after they’ve bundled off into the bracing cold of Chicago in November, and lets his dreams tug him under.

Sunday beckons the forger awake with dappled sunlight and dancing dust-motes, but he feels sluggish and restless all day, unbearably hot and simultaneously cold; his stomach is clenched tight and heavy, his head feels light and airy. It isn’t until he nearly passes out on his way to the toilet that he figures he might as well call somebody; but then he’s too busy being sick all over the bathroom tiles to bother with phones, so he drags a blanket and pillows into the tub and cocoons himself in it like he used to when he was a boy, and nanny would run a cool cloth across his forehead and sing to him in French.

“Ni le bien qu'on m'a fait, ni le mal,” he mumbles gruffly, burrowing deeper, eyelids weighted.

Eames’ dreams are filled with snow and the tangy smell of blood, and he keeps getting shot— over and over— each time he thinks he wakes up, he finds himself being dragged back down into the tar-like saccharine sap of imagination, shot in the head, again and again. There’s a distant buzzing, persistent and inane, and it kicks Eames out of his headspace and he feels terrible, so fucking awful, worse than when he was hit by that truck that one time, and  _oh god;_ the buzzing finally stops, and Eames presses his cheek against the cool of the porcelain tub and slowly starts to drift.

“Eames, what the  **_fuck.”_ **

Eames stubbornly screws his eyes shut against this new development in his subconscious, and groans.

“Eames, would you kindly like to explain to me why the fuck you are sleeping in your bathtub, and not sitting at your desk outside my office doing your job on this beautiful Monday morning?”

Eames laughs, even dream Arthur is a pain in the fucking arse.

The tinny ring of a cell-phone echoes across the tiles, and Eames hears Arthur’s voice clipped and low, and he basks in it—as irrational and unbecoming as that may be, it’s his goddamn dream for chrissake, so fuck it.

“Hello? … Yes Mal, he’s alive.” Eames can hear the implied ‘unfortunately’, “Yes, thank you for giving me a detailed step-by-step guide on how to break into Eames’ flat, mmhmm. Alright.”

The silence is stifled and awkward, peppered with the tap-tap-tapping staccato of Arthur’s designer shoe against the floor. Eames cracks an eyelid, _fuck_ it’s bright.

“Are you wearing your shoes inside my flat?” Eames trails off into a moan of pain and closes his eyes again.

He hears Arthur huff snottily under his breath, and he’s about to say something crass and witty, but then with a disgusting ‘ _woosh’_ his blanket is gone.

Eames sits up with a start, and glares at—he concludes stolidly—a very real and very irritating Arthur Finch looking positively edible in his fucking genuine Italian leather shoes, and a really fucking gorgeous _British racing green_ suit, _Jesus Christ,_ holding Eames’ blanket loftily and proud like a _child._

“Give it back, Finch,” Arthur smirks at him and tosses the blanket outside the open bathroom door.

“What the bloody hell,” Eames growls, fighting against the swooping pounding feeling in his head, “Are you doing in my flat?”

Arthur stares at him, head cocked pensively, eyebrows pinched together, and then he turns and leaves Eames blanket-less in the tub.

“Oi! You dick! Bring back my fucking blanket,” Eames shouts before collapsing, chest heaving, back into the tub, curling around the agitating unpleasant feeling gathering in his stomach and the sweaty itchiness pricking behind his eyes.

And then Arthur is back, suit jacket missing, and shirt sleeves rolled up above the elbows; a determined look on his face that Eames associates with him having to tackle a particularly puzzling and demanding project.

“What are you doing back here without my ruddy blanket?” Eames tries lamely, and is unsurprisingly ignored as Arthur purposefully steps into the white tub behind Eames, hooks strong lean forearms underneath Eames’ armpits, and begins to remove him bodily and uncaringly-rough from his porcelain pod. 

“What the fuck, Arthur,” Eames feels bile in his throat, and his vision is white and threatening at the edges; he sags back against Finch’s warm chest, and wills his legs to help as much as they can, “handle the merchandise with care, Jesus, Finch,” he whimpers as Arthur bumps him against the doorway leading to his room.

“I expect you,” Arthur is biting out, grunting as he heaves Eames towards his bed—well it can only loosely be described as a bed, it’s more of a king sized mattress piled with pillows and blankets on the carpeted floor, “To call in to the office when you are sick so I know not to expect you.” He drags Eames, who, to be completely truthful, is barely listening, only holding onto consciousness by a thread, “You have severely inconvenienced me, as well as my associates, and in fact the entire firm by your inability to be a responsible adult,” Eames is being jostled into position amongst the cloth and down and he would be more indignant at his body’s rough handling, but the hands propping him up against the pillows are solid and kind. “One simple phone call, Mister Eames, it’s really not that difficult.”

Eames slides neatly into blinking oblivion only to gently be brought out of it by moisture-trailing fingertips brushing across his forehead, lingering like a promise.

Eames blinks sluggishly, lips parting reluctantly as a glass is pressed against his mouth and water is slowly and carefully poured down the dry scratchiness of his throat. Eames stares at Arthur while he drinks; Arthur’s presence fills the room and his posture is taciturn and pristine, durable lines graceful and beautiful juxtaposed with the unruly disorder of Eames’ flat.

Arthur’s eyes are steady on Eames’ mouth, and Eames notices for the first time that Arthur’s hair is a complete and utter mess; as though he’s been running those delightfully talented, tapered fingers through it distractedly. His mouth is strained firm and inexorable, his forehead creased with care-worn lines, and Eames feels compelled to smooth them away with a calloused-broad thumb, and he realizes he’s doing that, while swallowing obediently; his hand stark in coarse contrast against the sculpted planes of Arthur’s face.

Arthur’s cheek is smooth and forgiving against Eames’ palm, the forger gulps in rhythm with the other man’s breathing as they are quietened into an intimate sort of stillness.

Eames finishes the water, and Arthur’s eyes flicker from his mouth to his eyes, and Eames realizes he must still be dreaming, surely, because Arthur looks like he fucking cares. His eyes are sparked with life and heat and tenderness, and Eames feels like absolute shit but it’s all so undeniably worth it for the way that Arthur is looking at him right now: like he means something; like he _matters._

The forger’s hand is wrapped up in slender agile fingers, scorching and wonderfully real, and Arthur turns his face in towards Eames’ roughened sin-covered palm and he kisses it.

Eames brushes his thumb over Arthur’s cheekbone, too sick to do anything else, and Arthur slowly—almost reluctantly—pulls away.

Finch clears his throat, the noise of it lurid in the cushioned silence, and stands,

“I’ll get you another cup of water, and I’ll see if I can find you some soup,” He leans forward and brushes a hand across Eames’ fever-hot forehead, “Get some rest.”

Eames knows he doesn’t need this, _can’t_ need the answer, _can’t_ need the way he longs to spill out words and endless meaningful tormented everythings to Arthur, so he locks it up— but can’t help the question slipping out as sleep beckons, summoning him close:

“Why are you doing this, darling? Why are you being so nice?”

Arthur freezes, expression gone strained and painful, flickering to a self-deprecating smirk;

“Go to sleep, Mister Eames.”

X

The first thing Eames sees when he opens his eyes is a large glass of water sweating condensation, and he swears it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever fucking seen. Propped up against its side, becoming soggy with moisture, is a note.

Eames forces himself to focus on it, and plucks it from its perch; fingers shaking slightly, head pounding, mouth parched and woolly.

_Thought it best if I disappeared before you woke up; soup is cooling on the stove._

_Your presence is not required at the firm tomorrow— I expect to see you at your desk on time Wednesday morning, or a phone call if_

_you are still unwell—you’ll be fired on the spot if you puke in my building._

_—A_

Eames folds the wet edges carefully before grasping the glass of liquid heaven and draining it.

Setting it down he notices his phone sitting on the side table with a sticky note stuck haphazardly on it.

_If you’re not dead by Wednesday morning—but still unwell enough to come in. **CALL.**_

The last is underlined several times.

“Dick,” Eames huffs amusedly to himself before sliding his cell under his pillow and succumbing to the caress of sleep.

Soft but sharp vibrating at his fingertips wakes him up from a dream about stairs that twist and flip around themselves pleasant and mesmerizing, clean and sleek cut like Arthur; an Escher-like dreamscape. Running a sleep-thick tongue over his lips Eames blinks sluggishly at the soft blue glow of his phone, swiping across the screen to see 1 Message from Darling:         

‘If you have not eaten the soup yet, it most definitely is cold’

Eames shoots back:

‘fuck off, mum’

Seconds later his screen brightens again,

‘If you do not eat something in ten minutes and provide photographic evidence, I’m calling Mal’

Eames curses Arthur colourfully and creatively all the way into the kitchen. His stomach twists hungrily at the smell of chicken soup laying across his apartment like a warm blanket. Scratching his bare chest, and realizing all he has on are his favourite pair of sweats that are years-soft and worn thin, he spoons some of the soup into his mouth directly from the pot with the ladle.

Smacking his lips and moaning appreciatively, he holds his phone up and snaps a cheeky shot of himself, ladle resting on the plush pillow of his bottom lip, his hair a tousled mess. He still feels like an absolute mess and a little woozy, but the soup is a warm comfort soothing his stomach, and he feels like there’s no better time to marathon Twin Peaks on Netflix like the present, and so he does.

Eames feels his fingers keen and restless, eager to grab his phone and text Arthur, just to have contact with him, but. His thoughts turn to the way Arthur had been treating him earlier: with a thing almost like carefulness, and the thought of that possibility makes his heart ache, and so he digs his fingers into the meaty flesh of his thigh, and admires the way Agent Dale Cooper handles a cup of coffee.

An hour later Eames is dozing lightly in front of the light-dancing of the television when his mobile starts jumping and clattering on the coffee table next to his propped up feet; it’s Mal.

“I’m eating,” Eames splutters as he answers his phone while shoving a spoonful of frigid soup into his mouth.

“Eames, don’t be disgusting,” Mal’s accented voice is clipped and metal sounding in his ear, “Did you know that I’ve just discovered my husband wrapped up in a ridiculous—” Mal’s voice goes faint, “Dominic darling, we can both agree that five scarves is just absolutely absurd—” She turns her attention back to Eames, “Amount of outerwear prepared to trek to your place with **_two—_ ** ” Eames pulls the phone away from his sensitive ear, “TWO! Bottles of vodka. With glitter ! The bottles of vodka have _glitter_ in them Eames, _merde.”_ Eames, quite valiantly, does not laugh, but hums as understandably as he can under the circumstances.

“Anyhow, dear, my husband seems to think you are clinging to the precipice of death itself, because he has been chatting on the phone all day with Arthur—on _my_ cell-phone, Eames—the invasion of privacy alone! Dom! Get back here right now! I can—I can fucking see you! Dominic Cobb, so help me.” Eames hears her take a few calming breathes on the line.

“Eames, sweetheart,” Mals voice is sincere and laced with honey-infused concern, “Dom claims Arthur has deemed you unfit for duty until Wednesday. Do you need to go to hospital? Do you need me to come by? I don’t think I can ever recall Arthur Finch granting _anyone_ a sick day.”

“Jesus Mal, it’s just a fever,” Eames’ voice is gruff and red-hot taut with something he’d rather not explore.

He hears Mal huff quietly, “Alright, but call me if you need _anything,_ okay?” The noise Eames makes must appease his friend somewhat, because he hears her hum, and then, “Dom! He’s fine, he’s just told me—get the fuck away from the window Dominic Cobb,” the line goes dead with a _click._

Eames feels sort of hollow, like there’s a light vague curling wisp of something flowing into him and filling him up, emptying everything else out, so he tries typing, his thumbs large and clumsy on the small touchpad. Giving up with a frustrated snarl, he swipes at the screen and then holds it to his ear.

The minute he hears the change in silence indicating the call has been answered he says,

“Mal says you’re pestering Dom. I’m fucking fine Arthur, now can you please stop proving whatever it is you’re trying to prove and quit bothering my best mate and his, quite frankly, terrifying wife? I’m trying to ogle Dale Cooper here.” Eames’ voice is scratchy and the words rush and overflow, tumbling out of him.

There is a prolonged considered silence on the other end, charged and strained and ignited with tension; dense. Eames starts to think he’s talking to voicemail when he hears a throat clearing and Arthur’s voice tight with something unnameable,

“You’re—” Arthur clears his voice ineffectually; his voice is coarse and rough-low, textured like a dirty slide against Eames’ cock, “You’re watching porn?”

Eames nearly drops the phone, his body feels numb and all over icy hot like he’s been set on fire, and he—he’s too fucking sick for this,  _goddamnit._ For a long moment he listens to his own heart pounding, and the harsh nervous inhale-exhale of Arthur, so close and loud in his ear it’s as if Arthur is in the room; Eames closes his eyes and it’s almost like he can feel the hot ghost of breathing against the shell of his ear. 

“No,” The word is slow and drawn out, and Eames barely recognizes his own voice, calm and collected, “I’m watching Twin Peaks. _Agent_ Dale Cooper. Arthur,” Eames can hear Arthur’s breath coming fast and shallow, and he knows the man on the other end of this call is beginning to panic, “How the almighty _fuck_ do you know about _Gay Porn Star Extraordinaire_ Dale Cooper?”

Eames is surprised when Arthur doesn’t immediately hang up on him.

He’s not surprised when he realises belatedly that his cock his half hard in his sweats.

He leans his head back, resting it against the threadbare fabric of the couch, and runs a hand down his face, sighing softly.

“Arthur,” Eames can feel Arthur’s silence on the other end, can barely hear his breathing; a little fast, a little harsh, and Eames is feeling restless and chaotic and a little bit like smashing something, mind filled with destruction and ruination, wants just a little taste of  _anything,_ and, just—  _Fuck it._

Clutching the phone tighter to his ear, unwilling to miss a single moment of whatever the fuck he’s about to do, Eames growls low in the back of his throat, and spreads his thighs and begins doing one of the things he does best.

He begins to talk.

Low and syrupy sweet and he tries—honest to fuck he tries not to put everything he’s ever felt into the words he’s saying, but he can’t fucking help it.

“Arthur? You don’t need to say anything, just—relax, okay?” Eames tries to keep his voice soothing and familiar, despite the raging in his chest, and the clammy way his mobile feels sweaty in his palm, jammed against his ear, “Yeah. I want to— _fuck,_ Arthur, I want you to hear me.” Eames can feel himself flushing hot, and he honest to god whimpers when he hears the slight hitch in the breathing on the line, and the possibility that this is affecting Arthur even just a little has him blindingly hard in seconds. 

Eames closes his eyes.

“I want you to hear me touching myself, so fucking hard for you Arthur, would you like that?” Eames doesn’t wait for an answer, hands burning against his thighs.  

“You have no idea,” Eames breathes, then bites his lip, refusing to finish that thought. Instead he parts his legs slightly, cock twitching.

“Buggering fuck, Finch, I—I need to just,” he stops talking and shoves his sweats down enough to free his dick. He thinks the breathing in his ear is a little louder, a little faster, and deciding it’s all the encouragement he needs, he starts narrating,

“I’m going to tell you what I’m doing to myself, darling,” Eames can hear his accent getting thicker and his voice going slurred with want, as he wraps a wide hand around his cock, “I’m imagining it’s you, Arthur, imagining your hand on my dick, pulling slow, and  _Christ_ , I’m—I’m smearing precome over the head, and  _fuck._ Arthur, getting my cock slick and shiny,” Eames licks his lips, eyes widening as he imagines he hears the ticking rasp of a zipper being pulled down. His toes curl, and he has to grip the base of his cock hard enough it hurts.

“Imagining you all splayed open on your office chair, the bulge of your cock—bet it’s fucking pretty—distorting the line of your suit trousers, _Jesus,”_ Eames hisses at the twist of his wrist at the head of his cock, the slide rough and not near slippery enough, so he brings his palm to his face and starts swiping big, wet licks across the salty surface.

The silence is oppressive and overpowering, and he knows he’s reading too much into everything so he just kinda, shatters a little,

“You drive me fucking insane, you make me want to push you until you snap, spread you out on top of that ridiculous fucking desk of yours and lick you until you’re loose and sloppy and ready for me; wanna make you moan for me Arthur, make you a fucking noisy bastard writhing on the end of my tongue.” If Eames strains and concentrates enough he thinks he can hear the arousal pulling at the edges of breaths and pants, and.

And that’s when he hears the silent ‘ _fuck’_ muffled and distorted electronic in his ear, and it makes him feel crazy and frantic and so fucking horny and _shitfuck,_ he decides to just fucking go for it, slurping loud and obscene, getting his palm dripping wet.

He can already feel the orgasm tugging at his balls, white-hot and consuming-close, and he’s barely even fucking started; cock practically drooling, slick against his fingers as he moves his spit-wet palm slow and tight up over the slippery ridge of his cockhead, and moans low and long.

“Ah—fuck Arthur, want— want you to hear me lose it, want you to fucking hear me lose it for you,”

The wet-slap sound of Eames jerking himself off is lewd and loud reverberating hollow in the room—the television gone grey and dark with idleness—and Eames is arching off the couch a little, making these gorgeous strung-out noises, every muscle in his body overwrought, hand a slick-fitted grip on his cock, rhythm just this side of too slow.

There’s an intense concentrated buzzing under his skin, and Eames is panting hard and his hips jerk up into the circle of his fist, rocking against nothing, and he finally finds his bloody voice,

“Your mouth, _god,_ Finch your fucking mouth, know it would look just right slurping down my cock, lips shiny and wet for me, cheeks hollowed. Bet you’d like that, huh Finch? Down on your knees all pretty for secretary?” Eames cradles the phone like a lifeline, legs spread as wide as his trapped sweatpants will allow, lips bitten white and sharply pink, cock swollen and velvety-hard in his desperate hand, sticky pool of precome and saliva glistening at the tip, dripping onto the muscled planes of his abdomen.  

Eames tries to keep talking, breath catching in little whimpers interspersed with punched-out grunts, but he can’t manage to form anything remotely coherent aside from expletives and Arthur’s fucking name,

“Arthur, oh—ah, yeah, fucking—Arthur, I’m—” Eames’ hands are flying, rough and unforgiving, his head thrown back on the couch, lips bitten to all hell, nipples hard points on his dusky-flushed chest, every muscle straining, reaching, “ _Oh_ fuck, I’m gonna—gonna, ah, _aah—”_

Eames’ mouth falls open on a soundless gasping sob, his hips thrusting into the hope of something, his body going tense and everything is pinpointed and he can feel nothing and everything; a focused pleasure so profound and intense that he’s shoving a hand into his mouth without thinking, and then remembering, pulls it back out and let’s his orgasm tumble out of him, a moan escaping him filled with such honesty and _sentiment_ as come spurts and spills hot against his fingers,

“Arthur, _darling_ ,” he can hear the wrecked tear in his voice, and he feels the tell-tale leaden clench of embarrassment; mortifying and encompassing and validated by the call going dead in his ear.

X

Eames turns his phone off, locks the door to his flat, and sleeps all day on Tuesday.

X

Eames doesn’t know what to expect on Wednesday when he shows up to work, but oddly, it’s not this. Finch is more reserved, pulled back and in on himself, collected and unwavering; exacting and resolute and. Not mean. Not like in the beginning, when he was cruel and unerringly malicious, but he’s—forbidding and off-standishly civil.

Eames furiously cringes his way through Wednesday morning, expecting to be called into Arthur’s office and yelled at about inappropriate behaviour and sacked on the spot, but when Finch treats him with nothing but distant professionalism, Eames locks himself away in a supply closet and has a bit of a breakdown.

He stands in the dark for what seems like hours, just breathing as evenly as possible. The fuzz fills his mind like the fluff of cotton balls and he can feel the interlocking scales of shame stretched tight underneath the marked expanse of his skin.

A slice of light cuts into the darkness behind him, and he hears something move, the door closing, and then the plastic click of the light switch, and his eyes are spotted and swimming with fluorescence.

“Are you going to be sick in here Mister Eames?” Eames doesn’t hear the concern he heard the other day lacing Arthur’s words, and the thought that he’d never actually heard anything, just hoped, dreamed that he had, fills him with loathsome solitude and the smacking of violence.

“I’m fine,” he says sarcastically turning around, and is about to snark something about philandering CEOs cornering hapless secretaries in supply closets, when Arthur opens his mouth and Eames remembers exactly why he hates the fucking bastard so much,

“We can’t be  _friends,_ Mister Eames,” and it’s not even what Finch is saying, it’s the way he’s fucking saying it; all condescending and up his own arse like he’s teaching a very stupid dog a very simple lesson, “I’m your employer, you’re my  _employee,_ I’m me and you’re, well. You’re  _you_ —” This is said really fucking pretentiously, and Eames feels insignificantly trivial and worthless, “The only reason you haven’t been kicked to the curb so far is because you’re surprisingly proficient, and as a favour to Mal I won’t—without good reason.” Eames scoffs, and really bites his tongue against saying, sarcastic and shitty, ‘like when I jerked off while explicitly detailing the dirty things I want to do to you?’ because, although Ariadne would scoff and call him a liar, he knows when to keep his big mouth shut.

“Now, I am perfectly willing to put the past in the past, and continue our remaining months together with a civil and efficient partnership with you—” Arthur raises an eyebrow, and wrinkles his nose disdainfully, “in your place where you belong.”

Eames wants to leave, wants to punch Arthur in his stupidly perfect face, wants to threaten, wants to mar, wants to kiss, wants to run. His fists clench ineffectually at his sides.

“Eames,” Arthur’s eyes are filled with. Fear—Eames thinks, would bet on it, and his blood sings with it, thrilled and excited, and Eames wants to reassure Arthur, wrap his jaw in clumsy inadequate hands and soothe, but Arthur’s expression has gone terrified and frenzied with the fear sparking to hatred to anger and, “Eames. If you breathe a word of anything, _anything,_ regarding—” Eames nods abortively, understanding Arthur’s inability to say it, “I will end you. I will release everything I have on you to the appropriate authorities; I will,” Eames’ mouth goes dry and he can’t even catalogue the insurmountable _betrayal_ he experiences in his bones as he sees a look on Arthur’s face he’s never seen there before, and never wants to see again, and his heart seizes and crumples in his chest, “I will release what I have on Mal Cobb as well.” Arthur is swallowing convulsively, and Eames thinks he’s going to be sick.

He’s flooded with the soul-searing hurt of betrayal, and he knows it must show on his face because Arthur steps forward a little, guilt and sorrow and resolution smeared all over his face, and Eames realises he nearly started trusting the bastard, he should have fucking known. He should have known better.

And so he does something he hasn’t done with Finch since that first day; he pulls on someone else. A version of Eames that learned to lock his imagination away when mother kept getting letters from his tutors, a version that he slips into out of fear: the first time when Father nearly sacked nanny for ‘filling his head with foolish notions’, an empty blank Eames that does his duty, that stays within perfectly proportioned and well-crafted boxes, the Eames that nanny commiseratively whisper-named ‘Spock’, and she’s the only one that ever understood his need for this.

An Eames that doesn’t dream, doesn’t ruin, doesn’t create— just is. So much trying to burst out of him that he has to lock it all up and urge it, beg it, to stay tamped down. An Eames honed to perfection. He nods so that Finch knows he understands, and then he walks stiffly to his desk, and begins working on his in tray. At the end of the day, with a few emails pinging off about meetings and plans and blueprints and memos and invoices, Eames pulls on his coat, and makes his way home.

The next two weeks are the same, Eames seeing Arthur less and less; each giving the other wide berth and Eames actually find that he begins to enjoy his work when Arthur treats him with courteous, calculated respect. Eames also finds that he misses the feeling of Arthur breathing down his neck, never satisfied with Eames’ best, pressuring him to do better, and get something done just right to get Arthur all hot and bothered and irritated and  _alive._

Eames welcomes Thanksgiving weekend with arms flung wide even though the holiday is, quite frankly, ridiculous, he’s grateful for the extra day off.

X

Eames is getting drunk with Dom in the kitchen while making his signature cranberry sauce and overall generally supervising the making of the Thanksgiving feast; ridiculous holiday or not, feasting needs no excuse.

Ariadne is discussing the finer points of fire building with a glowing Yusuf in the living room, while they pretend to admire the flames licking and dancing in the hearth, while really admiring each other.

Mal is milking her pregnancy for all it’s worth and has her feet propped up on a plush ottoman, pretending to read a modern book of poetry, while really eavesdropping on the wine-soaked flirtation between Ariadne and Yusuf.

Eames is pulling out a pack of cards while they wait for the turkey to be finished, pies cooling on the counter, urging Dom to play just one round of poker with him, all or nothing, when the doorbell rings.

Eames figures it’ll be one of Dom’s jumped-up work buddies and retreats to the balcony for a smoke. He watches the snow drift lazily down, swirling and catching on the wind, and let’s himself unwind a little— uncoil and just be.

His peacefulness is short-lived.

Hey man,” Dom breathes, sliding the glass door shut behind him, shivering slightly, “I just want you to know, that I had no idea about any of this, and I totally would have told you if I did.” Eames confusedly takes another drag, nicotine calming the anxious thud of his heart, smoke muddying up his lungs.

“If you wanna leave, I totally understand, but if you get through this with me I swear I will pull out the strong stuff and we can get wasted at your place later.”

The look in Cobb’s eyes is pleading and pitying and hopeful and Eames would never leave on Thanksgiving no matter what; this is a _thing,_ stupid holiday or not, this is a _thing_ that they do. Tradition, or whatever. But Dom is making him really bloody nervous.

“What?” he asks gruff, stubbing out his cigarette.

Dom grimaces and gestures with a shake of his head for Eames to follow him back inside.

Inside where everyone is gathered in the main room around the warmth of the fire, and everyone includes Arthur and some blonde woman Eames has never seen before.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Eames says, voice gone all gravelly and indignant because seriously. What the fuck.

Finch can’t just. He can’t just threaten Eames and hold Mal over his head and then try to worm his slimy way into their fucking ridiculous holiday. Eames needs to break something.

“I did, darling,” Mal says, not rising from her seat, face framed golden and warm and beautiful and Eames can’t handle this; can’t handle the idea of Mal opening up her heart and home to Arthur Finch when he’d sell her out in a minute just to protect his fictitious heterosexuality.

The look Eames gives Arthur is wounded and broken, and Eames is reluctantly pleased to see something like guilt flicker in the steely measured glance returned to him, and spinning on his heel, determined not to ruin Mal’s Thanksgiving, he retreats to the kitchen.

Eames resists the compulsion to punch, throw, kick. He wants everything around him to look exactly how he feels inside; smashed and sharp and irreparable, and he nearly decks Dom when the man rests a gentle hand on Eames’ shoulder, trying to calm the shaking tension running through him like a live-wire.

“If only you knew,” Eames says desperately low before twisting underneath Cobb’s touch and checking on the turkey. The blatant hypocrisy of the entire situation rests uneasy on Eames’ chest. Arthur is clearly friends with Mal, and he’s got a sort of tentative camaraderie with Dom, and if that isn’t the most illuminating shit ever. Eames tastes bitterness like crushing herbs in his mouth, gritty and grinding between his teeth, because the dread of it is rushing and blinding, that Eames just isn’t good enough for Arthur.

And the man is just so full of bullshit it makes Eames feel physically ill. That the man who could ruin them; ruin everything they’ve had to rebuild, destroy Mal—destroy their family, has been unwittingly invited to share this day with them. A day of safety and home and thanks. A day that Eames knows he doesn’t deserve to spend with the Cobb’s; not after he got Mal shot, and nearly caught, and everything started crumbling around them.

They’ve worked so hard to rebuild this thing they’ve got going, and Arthur fucking Finch has to waltz in and threaten to upset it and Eames. Realizes a little too late that he’s panicking.   

The forger braces corded forearms against the marble countertop, all hunched shoulders and barely held in restraint.

He feels the small warm hand Ariadne places carefully in the centre of his back, firm and reassuring.

“She found out he hasn’t had a proper Thanksgiving since his father passed, Eames. You know how Mal gets; how she misses Miles.”

Eames wraps his anger and humiliation closer, until it is a dense furl of burgundy simmering hot and tight in his ribcage.

They stand there for a long time, each lost in thought as Eames gets a hold of himself.

The timer on the oven buzzes and when Eames pulls the turkey out its skin is crisp and golden brown and perfect.

Ariadne moves behind him, leaning through the doorway connecting the kitchen to the living room to yell, “Dom, the turkey’s ready for you to carve, we don’t want a repeat of last year with the butcher back here.”

Eames hears a loud but somehow elegant guffaw from Mal, and polite laughter from the other guests as Dom barrels into the kitchen, sliding on socks across the linoleum.

“Who’s the broad?” Cobb whispers to him, wielding knives sharp and slicing.

Eames swallows and shakes his head.

“Wait, you don’t know? Mal always had the dishiest gossip about the dame of the week.”

Eames doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything, just watches Dom neatly and precisely carve the turkey into perfectly proportioned pieces.

As far as Eames knows Arthur hasn’t been seeing anyone since he first started working at the firm.

Dinner is stuffy and awkward, and the ease and comfort Eames had felt earlier in the evening has completely dissipated; everything in him coiled and on alert.

Arthur looks like absolute sex in a simple cream coloured button down underneath a mossy blazer paired with chocolate coloured slacks accentuating the lean way Finch’s legs seem to go on forever and ever.

But Eames can’t enjoy the view because Arthur keeps bestowing gentle feather light caresses that linger on his date. His fucking _date._

Eames wants to scoop his eyeballs out with a spoon.

Instead he smothers everything on his plate with cranberry sauce and abuses the alcohol almost as much as Dom does.

X

Eames fucking hates the grape thing. Of all of the ridiculous traditions on this ridiculous holiday, the one where you take a grape and say something you’re thankful for is the most ridiculous. Of course, Mal loves the grape thing.

“I’ll go first,” She announced magnanimously, plucking a grape from the ceramic bowl. “This year I am most thankful for my growing family,” Her hand rests warmly on her stomach, and her eyes twinkle happily at everyone at the table. Eames swallows bile.

Dom has said the same thing every year since he married Mal, but this year he holds out a little longer than usual, eyes flickering between his wine glass and the vicious smile plastered carnivorously on his wife’s face.

“I’m thankful for my beautiful wife!” he exhales in a rush, grasping the stem of his glass and gulping with relief.

Ariadne is thankful for being paid to draw, and Eames doesn’t really hear what Yusuf is thankful for because he’s too busy noticing the way Yusuf is looking at Ariadne as he says it, eyes drinking her in, reverent, thankful.

The blonde, “Jyll, with a ‘Y’” is “Thankful for all my new friends!” and Eames catches everyone at the table, aside from Arthur who nods politely, rolling their eyes.

Arthur looks nervous as he carefully chooses a grape, holding the fruit with long tapered fingers, rolling it obscenely between them. He clears his throat, and his eyes flicker briefly to Eames before stubbornly staring at the glittery acorn pinecone monstrosity of a centrepiece.

“I’m thankful that you invited me to your lovely home this evening, to share this wonderful meal.”

Eames tries to smother a condescending scoff into his cranberry sauce; from the irritated look Mal shoots him he’s not sure he succeeded.

Eames takes the proffered bowl from Arthur and quickly picks a grape.

“Oh Jesus, here we go. What’s it going to be this year Eames? Verse thirty-two of your Ode to your gun?” Ariadne teases. She takes Arhur’s raised eyebrow as encouragement, “he’s usually thankful for his gun. Or his brushes, or his paints. But usually his gun. And he won’t just say ‘I’m thankful for my gun’” Ariadne’s British accent is of the ‘Allo Guvna’ persuasion, and Eames sneers in disgust, “he’ll say he’s thankful for the weight and the precision of a fine piece of hardware in his hands.”

“Mal still has my gun.” Eames whines pettily.

“Remember that year he was thankful for Schijtgeel?!” Cobb joins in; Eames wipes spittle from his face. Ariadne is howling with laughter, “Who could forget! Oh my god, he started listing the various recipes of its production!” Arthur is politely smiling around at them all, and Jyll with a Y is chortling confusedly like a horse.

“It was a perfectly respectable thing to be thankful for, you lot,” Eames defends himself snootily, “If it hadn’t been for that Schijtgeel, then there would have been no Vermeer to pay for Thanksgiving that year.”

The silence that blankets them does so in a ripple effect, punctuated by the scrape of cutlery being set down carefully, and uncomfortable coughs. Arthur’s gaze is transfixed on Eames, dark and gleaming with curiosity, filled with something sparking and magnificent.

Ariadne is playing nervously with her scarf; Dom’s head is in his hands, and Mal.

Mal is looking at him fiercely, proudly without shame, but with joy.

“Of course, my dear, we needed you. We _need_ you.” It is said with the most careful genuine honesty that Eames looks down at the pulpy split grape and hoarsely clears his throat,

“I’m thankful that we,” He looks pointedly at Ariadne, swallowing down the guilt compulsively, “can all be here,” and his look encompasses Mal, and the blackness threatens to reach up and clog his throat; strangling, suffocating, “safe, together.” And Dom is smiling back at him, radiant and beaming; grateful.

“Here, here,” Cobb chokes out, “here, here.” He whispers and raises his glass.

A comfortable quietness envelopes them and Eames can feel the heat of Arthur’s glance like a touch; one moment filling him with fire, the next, leaving him cold and bereft.

It’s not until after pie and coffee is spreading warmth and courage through Eames that he lightly touches the pointed plane of Arthur’s elbow to get his attention,

“Mr. Finch would you like to join me on the balcony for a cigarette?” Eames’ tone is politeness, sunlit and friendly; a façade.

The air is brisk and snowflakes melt against their cheeks in barely there kisses.

Eames lights up and brushes snow off of the railing before leaning forward on his forearms; he doesn’t bother offering Arthur one.

Smoke curls in plumy wisps, dancing with the snow before disappearing. 

Eames drags deeply; calm evaporating with every smoky lungful—he’s outraged, almost incoherent with anger, saturated with it, invaded by it.

He can’t decide if it’d be more satisfying to shoot Finch in the kneecap, or to bloody his face with pounding fists.

“Why’d you accept Mal’s invitation?” Eames says into the quiet, the moon highlighting the slants and curves of Arthur’s face, “You’re not welcome here, Arthur.”

Arthur is looking up at the stars, the corners of his eyes tight, his mouth a straining line.

“By all means, make friends, marry some country-club bitch, breed some rug-rats, do whatever the fuck you want; but not here, not them,” Eames gestures towards the autumnal glow spilling out of the window onto the desolate loneliness of the deck. Finch’s shoulders are hunched forward a little, and he’s looking everywhere but at Eames,

“I will not let you take this. I will not let you take them from me.” Eames’ voice clear and low; the words suffused with his fear, with his loyalty, with protection, “I will not let you ruin this just because you are too proud, and too frightened to be yourself. If you want friends, a surrogate family: find them somewhere else.”

Eames looks through the sliding glass where he can see Dom dancing a laughing Mal around the kitchen, her hair flying around her face, cheeks flushed, smile unparalleled. The fight leaves the forger with a drag of the cigarette, paper crinkling and cracking, “How can you even say that they are your friends? When you would do this to them?” Eames’ voice is empty of accusation, just gentle and curious, sad.

Eames turns to look at Arthur, pushes down the urge to run comforting-rough fingers along his moon-lit jaw, “You have no reason to trust me, as I have no reason to trust you; but I’m asking you, Arthur— I’m asking you to destroy and forget anything you have on Mal, because I can’t stand to see her like that again. I can’t stand to see them like that—everything torn out from under them. And..and—” Eames’ fingers shake as he brings the cigarette to his lips, “I can’t have it all be my fault again. So please. I’ll give you the names of every known forgery I have in every known museum, but please. Arthur. Not for me, for her. You don’t know what she’s been through.” Eames is standing in front of Arthur, willing him to look at him, willing him to understand, to relent.

Arthur’s eyes narrow and the fear on his face is shining, “How do I know, how do I know you won’t just tell. I know you don’t care about yourself Eames; I can tell. You’re passively suicidal—you don’t give a shit about yourself, or what happens to you, Mal is the only thing I have over you, I’m sorry, I can’t—” Arthur chokes.

“You’re going to have to trust me,”

“You know I can’t do that,”

Eames sighs, having nothing left to offer, wishing with every fibre of his being that he’d never bet Mal in a game of five-card poker.

“Who is she?”

Arthur blinks at the change in subject.

Eames sighs, “The _girl,_ Arthur.”

Eames’ cigarette is down to the end, so he flicks it over the rail and lights another.

“I met her the other night,” Arthur looks uncomfortable and awkward, shuffling to lean his arms against the railing; snow trailing everywhere.

“Met her where?” Eames asks with a drawl, a drag, and a cheeky eyebrow waggle. Heart empty, body aching.

“At a bar,” Arthur’s words are clipped and short, but he looks sideways at Eames and smiles at him a little.

“Jyll with a Y,” Eames says leaning back, smirk settling into place, jagged teeth on display.

Arthur has the grace to look embarrassed.

“We  _can_ be friends,” Eames whispers into the silence, his cigarette long gone out, knocking his shoulder gently against Arthur’s.

Arthur faces him fully, eyes soft and gentle; he trails a frigid finger against the high angle of Eames’ cheekbone, drags it down to swipe and pull at the swell of Eames’ lip.

“I wish we could, Mister Eames; but we can’t.”

Arthur turns and knocks the snow from his boots before joining the cinnamon-cheery company inside.

X

The Monday after Thanksgiving weekend Eames finds himself in a cosy circle surrounded by the haggard secretaries of Secretaries Anonymous showing everyone how to double knit increase with a practiced clickity clack of his needles. 

“This was an excellent idea, Mildred,” Roberta beams at the shy woman, whose own needles are carefully crafting a beautiful laced pattern.

Eames has to agree; that morning he’d clicked over to his email to find a very polite and rather inspired message from Mildred—the harried personal assistant to a washing machine magnate—suggesting they all bring yarn and needles to today’s meeting and have a bit of a knitting circle.

Roberta had chimed in offering to bring extra everything, and Eames had felt the knotted pit in his chest loosen a little and growing excitement coloured his entire afternoon. Whether or not Finch had noticed the slight spring in his step, and unfailing cheerfulness, he couldn’t say.

Eames looks down at his own needles, trying not to think about how when picking up yarn and faced with a wall of options he couldn’t get cold eyes and pale parted lips out of his mind.

‘A childhood full of nannies,’ he’d supplied when the secretaries had all gasped agog as he cast on with perfect precision.   

Chewing on chapped lips Eames slowly starts twisting the yarn, the smooth metallic sound of sliding needles a cacophony echoing in the room.

Instead of counting stitches, Eames’ lips move silently over a soft mantra of  _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nervous.  
> find me: http://rasyya.tumblr.com/

**X.**  

“Smoking is a terrible vice,” Arthur says to him on Tuesday, folding his coat carefully over his arm; Eames ignores him.

Arthur stands there and stares at him, waiting for—a response? 

 _The fucking cheek;_ Eames feels an itching tingle at the back of his neck, the urge to push, to prod, to ignite. He ignores it in hopes that it will go away. It doesn’t.

Finch clears his throat for a solid five minutes until Eames slowly swivels in his chair, affecting an expression of boredom instead of incredulity as his boss begins to steadily lecture him on The Evils of Smoking.

Arthur’s eyes are the over-bright of exhaustion, and determination gathers in the pinched space between his eyebrows. His hands move with illustrative swoops, and punctuate The Facts. Eames resists the urge to roll his eyes— barely.

Eventually Arthur pauses for breath,

“You have a meeting in twelve minutes with the board.” Eames interjects.  

Arthur looks startled for a moment, eyes snapping to his watch, and then back to Eames. Finch licks his lips and Eames’ grip tightens on the hard plastic arm of his office chair.

“You really should quit,” Arthur says to him, his coat between them like a shield. Eames bites at his lower lip and watches the curious hunger in his employer; carefully considers the best course of action to get Finch to leave him the fuck alone to do his goddamn fucking job. Eames spreads his legs slightly, relishing the delicious stretch of his trousers across his thighs and savours the way the pink blooms high on pale cheeks, sweeps across the tips of ears.

“Darling,” Eames’ laces his words with sarcasm and injects them with callous jeering, “I didn’t know you cared.”

The air between them turns crisp and thin, Arthur’s back straightening slightly, a chasm.  Eames turns back to his computer, task complete, but can’t help himself from cataloguing _everything_.

The curl of Arthur’s hand at his side into a fist; the knuckles of his hand translucent bleeding into pink, the way Arthur’s stare becomes glassy and blank like slick tar, like empty hatred; a hollowness that eats away at Eames’ marrow like acid. The entirely unfair and utterly _graceful_ way Finch turns on his heel and lets the gaping maw of his office swallow him up with a snap.

Eames runs a hand over haggard planes and weary lines. “Buggering fuck,” he whispers to himself, allowing a brief moment of frustration, hot pain, and the strangling grief of knowing you’re missing out on something.

Pushing back his hair, and rolling his neck, he gets on with being an amazing goddamn file manager.

X

Arthur is being nice. Or— yes, nice. Not kind, but… nice. And as much as Eames has tried to ignore it, the fact of it lies suffocating-heavy, slowly smothering. It’s not quite _niceness_ , rather a cool politeness—false consideration wrapped up in saccharine sweetness—it hurts Eames’ teeth, it aches in the clench of his jaw, in that space deep in his throat—it _hurts._

He tries prodding at it, trying to get a rise out of Arthur, at the very least a reaction.

He tries to drown out the echoing blankness with drink and drink and drink.

Sure, the unreasonable working conditions and offhanded cruelty fucking sucked, but _anything,_ **anything.** Is better than Arthur barely acknowledging Eames with detached indifference and a congenial smile stretching his lips.

Arthur is nice to prospective clients.

Arthur is nice to acquaintances,

Arthur is nice to strangers.

Nice is…

Nothing.

It’s ambivalence wrapped up in social graces. It’s a bored glance, a brief nod, a stilted conversation about the weather. It’s neither tingling cold nor searing heat; it’s a precise balance of the scale on nothing.

Nice is nothing. It means

Eames is nothing

To Arthur.

 

Eames sits at his desk convulsively swallowing and trying to keep his breathing regular.

“Get a fucking grip, get a _fucking grip_ ,” he whispers at the letters of his keyboard.

 

He hadn’t realized how much getting a reaction out of Finch kept the too-muchness at bay; the creeping sad-soaked thoughts that make him cringe, make him bite, make him feel the violent scream of worthlessness.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

Nothing fucking matters.

 

Eames’ head is still in his hands when he hears Arthur walk by, sees the carless lingering caress of fingers brushing along the edge of his desk in the blurred edges of his peripheral.

He tenses, expecting the overwhelming confusing compressing force of Arthur.

He doesn’t realize Arthur didn’t stop until he hears the mechanical open and close of the lift doors signalling Arthur’s departure like the closing of a book.

He doesn’t realize until he hears the soft, “Salut,” and the creaking of plastic cradled like a lifeline against his ear that he’s called Mal.

“Something’s wrong with me,” he tells her over and over, like a skipping record, like a poem, “You are important, and you are needed,” she tells him over and over, like a balm, like a song.

X

Everything is bleak and dried out; stiff, starched. At work Eames drapes on other people, covering himself with the shells of capability, of competence. Ariadne fills the silent gaps with a brilliance that slides across him like windswept scarves, Dom sits with him and silences the noise with the branded silk of liquor, and Mal holds him together with duct-taped words and stiches of encouragement; fondness like glue.

Three weeks go by, and Eames finds himself solidifying; holding back the cresting swell and pull of seductive nothingness by holding onto his found family. Falling into old patterns and tentatively seeking new ones.

He runs calloused fingertips over the welcoming cream of empty pages and grasps his pen more tightly, rolling it reassuringly. Although his mind screams, and his chest hurts, his panic-laced fingers shake as he sketches on the bus on his way to work, as he smoothes ink in comforting erratic lines at night when sleep feels like a distant memory, sure and true in the morning with the grounding taste of coffee skittering across his tongue.

Eames feels splintered but—settling; cold hard acceptance shoving its way down his throat with every bland ‘good-morning’ and succinct email from Finch.

He feels. Okay.

Of course it all goes to shit at the office ugly-sweater Christmas party.

X

“I’ve found it,” Eames emerges from the tiny dressing room of the second hand shop, arms outstretched, closed eyes lifted to the ceiling.  Ariadne’s face is a combination of horror and glee, hands hovering between her heated cheeks and bright eyes.

“You found it,” she breathes, awe-struck, inspired.

Eames steps out of the lift and the holiday soaked clamour of the room scatters and quiets until it’s nothing but the kitschy plastic sound of generic Christmas music lilting between the slack-jawed employees of Finch & Son.

Eames bows.

Dom coughs and nudges his way around him, already having spotted the outrageously large crystal bowl of punch; a few people gasp. 

Dom’s sweater is not ugly. Alright, so it’s sort of hideous— a demented looking Rudolph leers from a garish pea-soup green knit. But it’s really not all that ugly. It’s just that Cobb found it in the little boy’s section, and it reaches to a few inches above his navel. Eames thinks the gasps are more appreciative than horrified, and he rolls his eyes.

Eames’ jumper, however, is a horrid manic-LSD-trip homemade pastiche of tinsel, hot pink, palm trees, beer belly Santa, stoned looking elves, and honest-to-God working Christmas lights that flicker and wink cheerily. Eames had felt it wasn’t him enough, and so he’d pulled out the hot glue gun and bedazzled the shit out of it.

Ariadne had found a sweater of a bunch of deer boning, and is already eagerly showing a laughing Yusuf. Eames’ eyes flit across the room, he tries not to be obvious about it, but— he can’t help it; can’t help himself.

He lazily watches Dom unscrewing a flask and then remembers the hissed warning from Mal,

“Watch him, Eames. I’m not sure if I got all the flasks, he hides them in places you wouldn’t believe.” 

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Cobb whines as Eames snaps up the flask, just as Dom is about to tip its contents into the punch. Eames takes a pull—scotch corded and hot burns down his throat. He hands it back to Dom whose eyes have already landed on a tray of champagne bobbing and weaving through the jumble of tasteless party attire.

X

Dom hands him another drink while loudly blathering about having to see a guy about a karaoke machine before lurching off towards the glittering disco ball across the room.

Eames watches. Finch is working the crowd, and Eames watches the thin skin of Arthur’s neck as he sips champagne, and feels that frantic familiar pull in his gut and looks down into his own glass.

He concentrates on his breathing, on the slow and steady rhythm of it. Closes his eyes and imagines charcoal lines smudged and stark, imagines hard planes and soft shading, and he’s smiling in the drunkenness of calm when he opens his eyes, startles a little, caught off guard at the sight of Arthur in front of him looking as if he’s been hit by a truck. Fingers loosely holding onto the rim of his champagne flute, lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed, the look in his eyes wild, unguarded, open and fraying and _wanting._

“You look—” Instead of finishing his sentence, Arthur finishes his drink, tipping the last of it back and placing it on a tray that appears at his side as if by magic. His eyes never leave Eames’. “What were you thinking about, just now?” Arthur asks, head tilting to the side, still looking, still staring: drinking Eames in.

Eames looks away first. Down a little at the, Jesus fuck—the sinfully snug jumper Arthur has poured himself into. His eyes narrow,

“Arthur, the subject line of the e-vite was, ‘Ugly Sweater Party’.” Eames is glad to find his voice steady and drawling, dark with teasing.

“It has amazing hand to fabric.”

Eames doesn’t bother replying, just raises an eyebrow sardonically, lifting his drink to his lips, the subtext a resounding, ‘What the fuck?’

“It’s mauve.” Arthur says, tone of voice offended, looking down at himself as if the garment he is wearing is the ugliest fucking thing in the world, and not a delicious softness clinging to his frame, accenting the milkiness of his skin, the life in his eyes. 

Eames feels hammered, high on the feeling of having the sharp vision-fuzzying focus of Arthur on him. He feels hot and brave and reckless and unfettered, alive and unhinged, and like taking something,

can’t help himself, tongue loosened and coated with the cloying taste of alcohol, he chuckles a little, looking back up,

“It’s gorgeous.” Eames clenches his jaw at the honesty of it, but doesn’t look away.

Finch stares at him thoughtfully, moves a little closer, the movement of it even but edged with nervousness.  He crosses his arms casually, a parody of nonchalance, eyes magnetic,

“Is it?” he asks, and Eames can feel his heartbeat pounding behind his eyes,

“Looks like it has amazing hand to fabric,” Eames feels steady on shifting ground—flirting has always come easily to him, but Finch is—Finch.

Arthur leans in; his breath a hot-cold-hot-cold pattern beating on the shell of Eames’ ear, “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” he asks, bold as brass, voice a slide like whisky, but Eames knows.

He knows what this is, how Arthur is; what will inevitably happen after sobriety and guilt take hold of Arthur and shake him and shake him. Eames _knows_ , and it speaks to his masochism, to his depravity and helplessness, and complete lack of self-worth that he finishes off his glass, not breaking eye-contact, licks his lips, and follows Arthur into the stairwell.

 _Such a bad idea,_ Arthur takes the steps two at a time up to his office, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.

 _Such a bad idea,_ Eames feels his nerves alight and the air in his lungs feel like an alive, scratching thing.

 _Such a bad idea._ Arthur rests against the dark wood of his desk, legs a long lean line, inviting.

Eames hits the floor hard.

His hands are shaking as he pushes Arthur’s sweater up slightly, pulling at the t-shirt he finds underneath it from decadent trousers. He glides his hands greedy and starved over firm pebbled skin. His ears are ringing and he feels as if he’s in a gun-fight; vision tunnelling and hands steadying for the task at hand.

Steady through unbuckling Arthur’s belt, the snick of leather; steady through the unmistakably loud separating of zipper teeth, steady through the push of rich fabric down muscled thighs, until Eames takes a steeling breath, hands at the banded waist of Arthur’s briefs, and then— there’s that smell, sweeping into Eames over the heady cloud of alcohol. Arthur’s smell, clean and broken and hopeful, and it makes Eames screw his eyes shut. Makes something lurch inside of him; some raw thing, delicate and dangerous.

He swallows thickly, opens his eyes to find Arthur looking down at him; no doubt cataloguing the wrecked desperation Eames knows is openly scrawled across his face. Finch runs possessive fingers across his jaw, ending at his lips, parting them with his thumb, and running the thick pad over crooked teeth. He drops his hand and smiles at Eames; a self-deprecating smile, so full of sadness and longing that it makes Eames freeze.

Eames registers something breaking inside of him. Arthur is in front of him, perfect— and infuriating because of it, and he makes Eames want. _Want_ in such a devastating and terrifying way, and Arthur is in front of him, heat coming off of him in waves, lips wet and shining, standing over Eames like he belongs there, and he’s _here,_ he’s **here.** But he’s not.

He’s already receding—pulling away at Eames’ stillness, reading it as hesitation, something already shifting the curve of his mouth and stealing over his eyes.

Eames sees it, and he feels the slip of alcohol in his blood, feels his heart pounding rabbit-fast, and his body straining towards Arthur; wonderful and wretched, reckless. Helpless as he watches the shutter come down, snapping detachment colouring his every movement, as Arthur closes himself off with crossed arms wedged tightly across this chest.

“I didn’t take you for a sloppy drunk, Eames.”

He feels itching madness.

“Go home, you’re a mess.”

“Eames.”

_Madness._

“It won’t last,” Eames finally gets out; voice raspy and thick, “It won’t fucking last.”

He has to steady himself on his knees then, and he is horrified and ashamed at his own weakness.

Arthur is quiet.

“You and me,” Eames continues beneath the blackness. “You’ll take, and I’ll give and give and give until there’s nothing of me left.”

Arthur swallows.

“You’ll get bored,” Eames says, smiling, though god knows why, “You’ll get bored. You’ll get so fucking bored.”

“Eames—”

But he can’t hear it, doesn’t want this confirmed,

“No.” Eames says, gutted, “I know how these things go. I know how these things end.”

He stops then and heaves heavily through his nose, fingers fisted against the wood floor. Bitterness and misery and want sludge thickly inside of him. He shuts his eyes and tries fiercely to calm himself. Tries lamely to tame the aching and coax it back under his discontent.

Arthur is breathing noisy and inelegant above him, and Eames feels fingers digging into his shoulder, firm and hard enough to hurt a little.

“You goddamn beautiful thing,” Arthur breathes into the emptiness above Eames’ head.

Eames feels so lonely then he could choke on it. He doesn’t hear the rest of what Arthur says, just kneels there stupidly, head bent over, can feel the weight of Arthur’s gaze. Doesn’t move or speak, and finally Arthur just sighs softly and leaves.

X

Eames waits until he hears the door close behind him, and then he falls forward onto his hands and panics; watches the smudged cloud of his breaths appearing and then disappearing on the polished floor in front of him. He tries to pull his phone from the confines of his trousers, and it’s all wadded around the pocket lining, and he feels his throat closing and the shameful prick of hot liquid behind his eyes, and then his phone is in his hand, but his limbs are like deadened branches, heavy as lead.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._ He tries to focus on the timing of his breaths, on the simple routine of breathing, and then he hears the door re-open behind him, and that’s it. It’s gone. Eames loses the rhythm of his breaths, moving forward to clutch his head in his hands against the floor and try to shove back the sickly feeling of not being wanted, of being bought, of being alone. He tears at his face, shoving and punching, trying to keep in all the things that want to leave him.

It’s Dom. Oh god, thank god, it’s Dom crouching in front of him and asking, “Can I touch you?”

Eames nods, he thinks, oh god. Fuck. Dom puts his hands on Eames’ shoulder, over the place where Arthur had gripped him so tightly. “I need you to sit up a little, okay Eames. Can you do that?” Eames tries to move but he can’t, and that terrifies him. All his control disappears and he can’t catch his breath. Cobb gently moves his hand in-between Eames’ shoulder blades,

“It’s okay Eames, you’re doing great. Breathe with me, okay?” Cobb’s breaths are slow and exaggerated, his chest rising with each inhale, falling with each exhale.

Eames listens to the sound of Dom breathing and tries. It’s just shallow breaths at first, and he falters when he remembers.

It takes ten minutes between him and Cobb before Eames feels in control again and okay to sit up on his heels. The humiliation feels too hot on his face and smothering-sharp and he almost loses it again, but Cobb’s hand is steady on his shoulder, and Eames knows him, knows he can trust him with everything.

“Do you feel ready to leave?” Dom asks, and Eames nods and stands a little shakily, and when he turns it’s to see Arthur in the door, looking nervous and frantic and unsure and worried.

_The fucking nerve._

“You weren’t responding and I didn’t—”

Eames looks past him, shooting and reloading in his head, shooting and reloading, shooting.

“Save it, Arthur.” Dom says, firm but friendly. “Just leave him be, you’ve done enough. I’ll see that he gets home.”

Dom calls them a cab and Eames watches the blurred lights and listens to Mal loving him from the other side of his phone clutched tight to his ear.

Wrung out and exhausted, he falls asleep and dreams of the blanketing brilliance of snow and the fresh smell of gun smoke.

X

Eames wakes up to dappled sunlight across the blankets twisted around his calves. He stretches, and starts—quick to look at his clock, leaning in to the stretch of it when he remembers that it’s Christmas Eve and he has three blessed days off of work to forget and lose himself in painting, gift giving, and family.

Eames pulls on his favourite pair of sweatpants—threadbare and grey, worn and soft, dipping low, barely hanging on to his hips but for the swell of his arse.  He shuffles across the linoleum and puts the kettle on, yawning groggily. He loves the routine and luxury of mornings off; pressing down the bread in the toaster, the movement of spreading thick marmalade across crisp crumbey toast. The sing of the kettle, and a cup of good brew. He basks in it, head back, munching happily, planning a painting and then

He hears a knock at the door.

He answers it bare chested, fingers twitching for his gun.

“You were a wreck last night,” Arthur says, voice strong and sure.

Eames’ brow furrows severely.

“I believe mess was the word of choice,” he retorts tartly and Arthur flinches.

Silence stretches, but Eames is a stubborn bastard so he stays quiet and waits it out.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t do it,” Arthur says, low, apologetically. Eames laughs meanly, tries to keep it from sounding as crazy as he feels, isn’t sure that he succeeds, “Couldn’t? Or won’t.”

“ _Can’t.”_ Arthur rasps out, sounding fucking _wrecked,_ “Can’t because it’s you, Eames. It’s **_you_**. Why can’t you let me be?”

Eames mouth falls open and he makes an involuntary startled sound.

“Why can’t _I_ let _you_ be?” he knows he sounds angry, can’t help the acidity leak into it and eat away at his patience, it was wearing thin already.

“Why can’t _I let **you** be?” _ he must look wild, Arthur takes a step back, but Eames grabs at his shirt, crumples the its softness between meaty capable fists and pulls, slamming the door to his flat and shoving Arthur against it.

“This is not on me, Finch. You cannot put this all on me. _You’re_ the overbearing bastard who won’t let _me_ be. I’m not the one. I’m not the one.” He can’t stop repeating himself, knows it isn’t helping his case, just makes him look more and more like a fucking nutter, “ _I’m_ the one who can’t get you out of my fucking skin. Who can’t get the thought of you out of my fucking mind.” He goes for biting-acerbic, but the words come out forgiving and wretched instead.

They stand, just—being; giving in to the gravity of the other.  Eames knows he’ll cave first, recognizes the familiar pull of inevitability, but holds out for as long as he can—obstinate in his restraint until Arthur’s eyes are nearly black with lust and his lips, pale and parting, spit out, “fucking do it,”

so he does— slowly lessening the space between them, giving fair warning, one meaty hand sliding back to gently grab Arthur’s neck like grabbing onto his courage, mind shredding away into static. He drags his lips dry around the sharp angle of Arthur’s jaw, fingers clenching in the wool of Arthur’s jumper,

He presses his lips against Arthur’s with a harsh broken sound.

Arthur’s mouth is slick and molten, a hot wet slide pouring fire into Eames. The cashmere of Arthur’s sweater barely brushes against the bare skin of Eames’ chest, and the forger growls, and breaks away; shaking slightly, nipples hard and aching. He inhales messily, eyes closed, relishing the darkness.

Eames startles at the feel of Arthur’s hand, warm and big, spreading slowly across the jut of his hip. Arthur’s fingers press against the worn grey of Eames’ sweats and the jut of his hipbone, firm and solid, fingertips bruising—promising.

“Look at me,” Arthur says, low and loose. Eames does and feels three seconds and a few good words away from falling apart at the seams, held together by the drying saliva on his lips and a heavy hand reeling him in, “I want you to see me.”

His fingers flex against Arthur’s neck.

“Now,” says Arthur, in this snooty fucking tone of voice that wraps itself around Eames’ cock, “why don’t you show me what that pretty mouth of yours is good for.”

Eames slips his hands underneath the hem of Arthur’s jumper, selfishly brushing them up the expansive luxury of Arthur’s sides trailing goose bumps in his wake.

“Amazing hand to fabric,” he murmurs, and relishes Arthur’s annoyed shudder.

“Get on with it,”

 _Fuck that._ If Eames is gonna give, he’s gonna give on his terms.

Arthur’s teeth are trapped between his lips, and Eames tugs the wretched jumper off and then has to remember how to breathe because Arthur is bloody beautiful and all that skin, all that sprawling _unmarked skin._

“Frustrated, Arthur?” Eames smirks pinning Arthur to the door with a hand curved around a broad shoulder, “I can fix that.”

And he wraps plush, unashamed lips around a dark pebbled nipple and **_sucks._ **

Arthur honest-to-god growls and Eames feels the vibration of Arthur’s head thudding against the door behind them.       

Eames tongues and laves and nips and sucks in a languid inconsistent rhythm, humming and slurping. His lips are wet and smear across the tight nub easily; he blows and Arthur flinches, lets out a muffled whine, and Eames feels pride swell in him heady and intoxicating.

“Shit, shit, _shit,”_ Finch sounds on his way to wrecked, and Eames plans to ferry him there; soul be damned.  He switches to the other nipple, lightly tripping his tongue over it in a relentless staccato, gets it slick with his saliva, feels Arthur’s back arch into it, grins around his mouthful as he feels a hand at his neck _dragging_ him in, pushing the sensitive-sore point into Eames’ mouth, demanding more.

Eames’ dick is a concentrated heaviness between his legs, tenting his sweats, and he looks up at Arthur, thick lips sticky with spit, and shoves himself between his bosses slut-spread legs and **_grinds._ **

And Arthur just—perfect and awful, face split into a shit-eating grin, backs his ass slowly down Eames’ tension-clenched thigh and then back up, rutting brazenly, hard cock trapped between them, eyelids shuttering and a, “god, that’s good,” drawling out of him like a prayer.

The forger snarls and wraps a bunt-wanting hand underneath the curve of Arthur’s knee and pulls; lifting his leg and wrapping it around his own hip. Eames thrusts hard, rough and unpredictable against Arthur, and even through all the uncomfortable friction, Arthur looks like he’s coming apart; his resolve cracks and a deep moan escapes him, and Eames can’t fucking handle it, he can’t.

“I knew you’d be like this,” he manages, “I knew you’d ruin me.” And through half-closed eyes he watches Arthur’s face harden, lust and triumph and relief stripping away the civilized veneer.

Arthur plunges three fingers into Eames’ mouth, and Eames sucks like he’ll die without this, and he knows he might.

“So fucking hot,” Arthur grunts, “so fucking gorgeous like this, all that strength and those fucking pants falling off your ass like that, _god, Eames,_ ” Arthur’s hands trace him, mapping all the ink, all the scars and mottled tissue marring the dips and planes. Eames feels wild and unsteady, like he might laugh or scream or cry.

Arthur bites at Eames’ ear, dripping greedy words and these high hot shivering little sounds as he rides Eames’ thigh, gaze unwavering, unforgiving.

And Eames can’t turn his brain off, can’t help the buzz under his skin and the crowding words in his headspace and _god,_ how he’d wanted this. Wants this. So sickly-bad. Wonders why he wanted this so much, if he wanted something that he’d exaggerated in his head, and he tries to convince himself that there are so many things more important than this.

“Look so good with my fingers in your mouth,” Arthur pants.

But there isn’t. There’s nothing more important than this. Just a little taste and he’s already like a goddamn junkie after a fix. Wants it more than ever. And how you often think about something as it’s happening, he wants it to never end, and to always be here. Wants to learn how to break Arthur in a single moment and with a single word, wants to be healed under Arthur’s skilful fingers.

Arthur is, of course, relentless. All that fucking control doesn’t just evaporate, and he chases his orgasm like a feral, desperate thing. Eames looks down to watch the dark stain blooming sticky and damning on Arthur’s trousers, and unable to help himself, he lets go of his hold around Arthur’s neck and gets a hand around his dick.

 _Fuck._ He’s making a mess of himself, leaking everywhere, and he quickly matches the pace of Arthur’s grind.

Arthur’s eyes are dark like sin and coloured with frustration.

“I want your mouth, you stubborn bastard.” Eames smiles around the fingers still jammed between his lips, loving the full spit-sloppy feeling of them,

Eames grunts and Arthur pulls the fingers out of his mouth, “Come,” Eames demands, “you want me to see you? Huh, Finch?” Arthur whines against him, “Can’t come on your own, Arthur? I can _fix that_.” Eames barely recognizes his voice, so quiet and low and made of sex.

Arthur tenses against the wall and wraps his other leg around Eames’ tapered hips, and Eames shifts his hold, covetously gets his feel around the firm globes of Arthur’s arse. Arthur grabs at Eames’ shoulders,

“So fucking strong,” Arthur groans, sinuously riding him, “Eames,” and his breathing sounds a little frantic, like maybe he’s about to come, about to flood his pants with come just from moving against Eames’ body, and it’s that thought that makes Eames finally lose any semblance of control and coherency.

He knows his voice is throaty and panting, “Fuck Arthur, fuck, fuck, want you to dirty yourself, wanna see you get your trousers wet and sloppy for me, wanna—” doesn’t finish that thought, because Arthur is grunting low and filthy in his ear, and then whining high and desperate and Eames sees splendid white brilliance behind his eyes, a whimper falling out of him, palm frantic as he spurts across his knuckles, soaks the inside of his sweats. He forces his eyes open when he hears a high, broken, simple sound of absolute pleasure and he catalogues everything for later.

The way Arthur’s lips bloodless between his teeth, his hair sweat-plastered against his forehead, the righteous strain of his neck, the way his chest heaves, and the burning branded feeling of Arthur’s trouser-trapped cock spilling through all those layers. The lax softened sex-out glaze of his eyes and the full-bodied shudder and the fearfully fond, tender way, he sighs,

“Brute.”

Eames guides them carefully to the floor, back leaning against the door and they stay like that for a while, neither saying much, letting the silence steal in and ground them.

Eames leans his head back and blinks tiredly at the room. He closes his eyes and threads his fingers through Arthur’s hair; messying it, lightly holding on to what he has for now.

“Cuppa?” he asks, fingers still itching for his gun.

X

“This is amazing tea.” Arthur sounds of sex and surprise and Eames grins at him across the table,

“It’s cos I’m British, innit, babe” he says between sips, and Arthur laughs and lounges and Eames feels too full of reckless happiness to help himself when he says,

“You should come to my Boxing Day party.”

“Sorry?” Arthur says, all politeness, but Eames can see him shifting on his chair, jizz-plastered pants probably sticking against his skin.

“Boxing Day. I do an all-out fucking do, everybody brings booze, the gifts they want to auction, leftovers…the Cobbs will be there.” Eames finishes lamely.

Arthur’s face is getting pinched and lemon soaked, and his posture is looking more and more ram-rod straight, so Eames smothers his face into the steam of his tea and mumbles,

“Think it over.”

X

Christmas day is family-warm and love-filled. Eames nervously hands out two paintings: one to the Cobb’s, and one to Ariadne. Dom openly cries over the heavy, economic strokes that make up the impressionistically captured piece of him and Mal dancing barefoot and happy in their little homey kitchen.  “Nepal,” Ariadne breathes, punching him in the shoulder and holding the frame close, as if to push the memory-imprinted canvas into her heart.

“You shouldn’t have,” she says, and he knows it for the lie that it is.

X

Eames’ Badass Boxing Day Blow Out stemmed from a stuffy child-hood full of unrecognizable far-off relatives, parents who tried to purchase his affection with presents, and of course—alcohol. It’s Dom’s favourite holiday.

Eames had sent a mass email to the Secretaries Anonymous, and half a dozen of them sip tea out of chipped mugs while Mal passes out auction paddles.

Arthur is here.

Arthur is _here._ Jesus.

Because Eames is a bit of a pathetic wanker, he’d mailed Arthur his Christmas gift—no note attached, so he chokes on his spit, devolving into a coughing fit, when he opens his door and Arthur’s neck is wrapped in soft grey knit.

“Nice scarf,” he wheezes out, failing at nonchalance.

Arthur smiles a little self-consciously and runs a hand over it lightly, tugging at it slightly. His eyes are dark with warmth and mischief, masking uncertainty, “I didn’t know you knit, Mister Eames.”

Eames spreads his hands wide, “Jack of all trades, me.” His face heats when he realizes he’s given himself away, Arthur’s smirk is wolfish, “you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you.”

Eames crosses his arms, “Mal tell you?”

Arthur hums while winding the scarf off, baring his throat, smoothing his hair,

“Smells of you,” he says simply, and Eames wants to lay face-down on the carpet.

“Eames!” Ariadne eagerly holds up a fistful of scarves, “these shitty gifts aren’t gonna sell themselves, get your luscious ass over here and start the bidding!”

Eames can feel his heart beating and his throat is dry and his skin feels hot and too-small, so he puts on his most ridiculous auctioneer voice, and the laughter that peals unbidden and unbridled out of Arthur Finch is better than any gob-job Eames has ever had.

He escapes to the kitchen having already auctioned off three pairs of socks and won two outrageous neck ties that Arthur had scowled at fiercely and hate-fuelled, and he’s feeling good— so good— so he nips into his room to call his mum and leave a message with her assistant Clara, and he’s having a breather in the hallway—just a minute to catch his breath because his head is spinning with it, rich and tipsy and—

“It’s good to see you two getting along,” Eames hears Mal telling Arthur in the kitchen.

“I don’t know what to do about him, Mal,” Arthur says.

Eames stills.

“He’s so fucked up, and he just makes me feel like a wreck, and I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

The emptiness and resounding ‘you knew this was coming’ roars and slams through him like a freight train.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (estimated fic length is 15 - 20 chapters)  
> cheers!  
> rasyya.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Post It Poem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/831966) by [OneOddKitteh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneOddKitteh/pseuds/OneOddKitteh)




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